


To Tell You When I Find You

by quirkysubject



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Bisexual Roger Taylor (Queen), Boxing & Fisticuffs, Brother-Sister Interaction, Class Differences, Death Wish, Disasters, Drama & Romance, Edwardian Period, Family Issues, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Freddie Mercury POV, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Massage, Minor Character Death, Music, No Major Character Death, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Attitudes to Mental Health, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, RMS Titanic, Roger Taylor POV, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt (ambiguous), Wordplay, body image issues, low-key Brian/Deacy (if you want to see it), past bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 91,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22790842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: On April 10th 1912, the grandest ship ever built leaves port in Southampton for its maiden voyage to New York. For Roger, theRMS Titanicis a promise of freedom and adventure. For Freddie, it's a prison thinly varnished with gold.Or: Roger/Freddie Titanic AU.
Relationships: Brian May & Roger Taylor, Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Brian May
Comments: 564
Kudos: 205





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Froger Titanic AU, ya'll! 
> 
> This broadly follows the beats of the movie (but it's not necessary to have seen it), although I adjusted the characters and timeline freely. I did my best to make sure it still holds up to the actual timeline of events. Character backgrounds have changed somewhat. It's a different time so in some ways they're different people. I hope they're still recognisable though. 
> 
> If any you are worried about a major character death because that's what happens in the movie... Look at the archive warnings and put your minds at ease :)
> 
> The entire story exists in very rough draft form. I'll post chapters as I get to rewriting and editing them. I'm aiming at one chapter per week. 
> 
> The explicit rating is mainly for sex, but this is also still a story about a major disaster, so death and injury abound in the last quarter. 
> 
> Please note that there's going to be some **suicidal ideation** , mentions of **sexual assault** and a character struggling with all sorts of **psychological issues** (body image, self worth etc.). Please don't read if you have a hard time dealing with any of this. If you want to know details or would like summaries of chapters or anything, message me [on tumblr](https://quirkysubject.tumblr.com/) @quirkysubject! (Also message me if you just want to chat 😉)
> 
> Thanks to [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally), [Tikini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tikini/pseuds/Tikini) and [Toinette93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toinette93/pseuds/Toinette93) for their input, cheerleading and listening to my ramblings 😘
> 
>   
> (Moodboard by the wonderful [painkiller80](https://painkiller80.tumblr.com/post/613593137222451200/buy-painkiller80-a-coffee-ko-ficompainkiller80))
> 
> This story is now being translated into Italian by Clay [on Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/story/221035966), which I'm super excited about!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Soundtrack:**  
> [Ian Whitcombe - Salute D'Amour](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=YSj12Waf4JM) (Lunch Scene)  
> [James Horner - Leaving Port](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=lxqANsXFFH0) (Foredeck Scene)
> 
> So much thanks to [emma_and_orlando](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/pseuds/emma_and_orlando) and [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally) for betaing this chapter!

#### Thursday, 11th April 1912

##### B-deck, Café Parisienne

"She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history. In fact..."

Freddie's features settle into a mask of polite interest as he tunes out Mr Ismay's monologue. He has heard that sentence - or variations of it - every waking hour since he set foot aboard this wretched ship. It seems impossible to get through even a single conversation without someone praising its superlative features. The biggest, the sturdiest, the most luxurious... He clenches his teeth and picks up his teaspoon, tracing his fingers over the engraved handle.

He feels rather than sees his mother's posture stiffen minutely. _Don't fidget, Farrokh_.

He puts the spoon down and folds his hands on the table, pressing his fingers into the backs of his hands in an effort tries to keep his irritation at bay. It's only natural for Mr Ismay, White Star Line's highest representative on board, to sing their master piece's praises at every opportunity. Freddie just does not understand how everyone else hasn't grown tired of it already. It's only a ship after all.

"...and our master shipbuilder, Mr Andrews here, designed her from the keel up." Ismay indicates the man next to him, who has been sitting quietly up to that point.

Put in the spotlight, Mr Andrews looks up and smiles a bit sheepishly. "Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr Ismay's. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is..." He knocks on the table. "...willed into solid reality." At that, the otherwise modest-seeming man beams with a glow of pride.

"It is remarkable", Freddie's mother comments in her crisp accent that never completely lost the softness of her mother tongue. "Is it true that despite its size, it is also the fastest ship in the world?"

Freddie's foot taps a rapid patter against the leg of his chair as Ismay rambles on. The constant cheerful simpering of the piano trio in the background is grating in his ears. Everything is grating these days.

His sister's arrival at the table it provides a welcome break from the litany of accolades. She looks radiant in her light green lace dress. Freddie saw her still working on it yesterday when he bid her goodnight. Cy immediately jumps up to offer her a chair. He's been awfully solicitous towards her ever since he met her.

A waiter appears to take their orders and while the others at their table are distracted, his mother leans over to Kash. "You know I don't like that, Kashmira", she murmurs under her breath, nodding at the pale red shine on Kash's lips which matches the bold colour of the sash at her waist.

Kash's jaw clenches, but she lowers her eyes and digs for a handkerchief in her bag.

"Oh, she knows." Cy wasn't supposed to be privy to that comment, but it's not like that has ever stopped him. The corners of his mouth are turned down in disapproval, but his eyes are glued to Kash's lips.

Freddie bristles with protectiveness. He doesn't trust his future brother-in-law any further than he can throw him, and he doesn't like the way he behaves towards his sister one bit. His words and gestures are always just within the bounds of politeness, but they are belittling and importune at the same time. And his reputation with women is rumoured to be less than stellar. 

Just this once, Freddie is glad for his mother's sharp eyes and insistence on propriety. As long as she's within a mile of Kash, Cy might as well try to dig his way through granite rock with his bare hands.

"Apologies, Ma", Kash says and dabs at her mouth with the handkerchief. She doesn't spare a single glance for Cy despite his handsome dark looks. Of course not. She's got better taste than that.

The waiter is still waiting for their orders, but before Freddie can order the shellfish, Cy steps in. "Oh, the lamb is excellent", he says, "we'll have that." He indicates himself as well as Freddie and his family. Freddie digs his fingers into his thigh and barely suppresses the urge to veto the order. "Rare with a little mint sauce", Cy goes on, then leans over to Kash. "You like lamb, don't you?"

She nods with a polite smile. It's technically true, except that she loathes mint sauce.

Freddie's had just had about enough of this. Kash is old enough to order her own food. And he doesn't _want_ rare lamb with mint sauce for lunch. Freddie's just about to order the waiter back when his mother's hand comes to rest lightly on his forearm. _Don't make a scene, Farrokh._

Freddie balls one hand into a fist and takes a sip of water. Cy has paid for their passage to America (or at least for the upgrade from standard first class cabins to a luxury suites), so he's accepted that he has to swallow his pride and let himself be treated like a dependant. But his mother and Kash shouldn't have to put up with it.

"So, who came up with that marvellous name, _Titanic_?" His mother brings the conversation back on topic. She directs her most charming smile at Ismay.

"Ah, well." Ismay raises a hand in a failed gesture of modesty. "That was me, actually. I wanted to convey sheer _size_." He beams at his own ingenuity.

"Oh really", Freddie mutters. "I hadn't noticed." Kash shoots him an amused look.

"And size means stability, of course", Cy chips in, happy to have found common ground with Ismay. "Luxury and safety, power..."

Freddie can't hold back any longer. "Have you heard of Dr. Freud”, he asks. “His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you, Cy."

Cy looks confused and exchanges a befuddled glance with Ismay. Kash on the other hand almost chokes on her scallion canapé, which instantly distracts Mr Andrews into gallantly offering her water and a handkerchief.

Next to Freddie, his mother has gone rigid.

Suddenly, the room seems too small, the plush chairs restraining him, the cloying sweetness of the music suffocating. He jumps up. "Will you excuse me for a minute", he mumbles as he stumbles outside.

The low murmur of conversation fades away behind him as he steps out onto the deck. The brisk, clean air on his face is a welcome refreshment. The sea is smooth as a mirror. Indoors it's only the faint rumble of the engines that remind him he's on a ship at all. It's just typical: in this day and age, people take something as brimming with excitement and freedom as sea-travel, and turn it into a gigantic, velvet-smothered hotel. What a hateful construction.

He takes a couple of deep breaths and after a few minutes, the rush of his outburst melts away, leaving an ashen taste in his mouth. This is exactly the kind of behaviour that got him here in the first place. He is lucky that few at the table were clever enough to understand his innuendo. He isn't just playing with his own reputation, he is potentially embarrassing his mother and his sister as well as his father back in England if he carries on like this.

He's 22 years old. He should have enough self control to sit through a few inane conversations without causing a scene.

But he can't face going back inside just yet. To distract himself, he lets his gaze sweep over the horizon where the Irish coast is slowly fading away and then down to the foredeck. It's well populated by third class passengers escaping the cramped confines of the steereage to enjoy the sun and fresh air outside. They are clustered in small groups, chatting or playing cards or minding their children. Two young men are sitting apart from the others at the very front, idly chatting and sharing a drink. They look comfortable, relaxed. They don't have to have to watch their every word, do they? Or is that just his happy fantasy?

A hand on his arm shakes Freddie from his reverie.

"You're missing lunch."

"I'm not hungry."

Kash leans with her back against the railing and observes him from under the brim of her hat. "The company is not going to get any better, you know. You can't skip all your meals for the next six days."

Freddie shakes his head and looks down at his feet. She's only seventeen and already so much better at all this than he will ever be. "I'm a right cad for abandoning you with Cy in there."

Kash grins. "You are." 

He can't help but smile back. Amazing how much better that small bit of honesty makes him feel. These days, his horizon tends to be covered in thick, never-changing grey and black clouds. He is grateful for any ray of sunlight clawing it's way through the fog. More often than not that ray is Kash, but of course she'll head back to England after the wedding. "I'm sure Mr Andrews is prepared to rescue you from his clasp, should the need arise."

She blushes to a deep crimson. As witty and straightforward as she usually is, her poise crumbles quickly in the face of handsome, respectful men with soulful eyes. Who are also married and too old for her. And Irish.

"I think I'll survive another couple of days in his presence", she says once she's recovered. "At least _I'll_ be rid of him after..." She breaks off and looks away, a bit embarrassed. By unspoken agreement, he and Kash never talk about the exact reason why they're going to New York: That he's essentially sent into exile. 

They both look out on the glittering water, delaying the inevitable moment they have to head back inside. It's such a beautiful day.

"Come on", she says and puts her hand into the crook of his elbow, tugging him away from the railing. "Our mint sauce is getting cold."

He sighs and follows her. Can't do that to the precious mint sauce.

* * *

##### Forecastle Deck

Roger squints into the bright sunlight. It's a brilliant day, the frost of winter still in the air but tempered by the intense glare of the sun.

People are milling about the deck, both on this and the upper levels. He's already put down some quick sketches of coats flapping in the wind, a little girl climbing up the railing, held securely by her father's large hands. He puts the drawing pad away and lets his gaze wander further up. His eyes aren't good enough to make out details, but from the colours of the women's dresses and the sizes of their hats alone it's clear that the upper decks are populated by wealthy folk.

Maybe if he finds a way up there or close to it, he could try to sell some of his sketches. There's a young couples right by the railing, might be on their honeymoon. Those always make good customers. But somehow he doubts that the White Star Line staff would welcome steerage passengers paddling their wares up on the top deck. He'd have to look respectable. Like he's just drawing for the sake of it, not like he's out to make a quick bob. Perhaps if he borrowed one of Brian's suits...

"Ah, forget it, mate."

"Huh?" Does Brian know about his requests before he's even made them now?

"Someone like her?" Brian leans back against the railing, a knowing grin on his face. The headwind tears at his hair and threatens to unleash his carefully tamed curls. "Not even you."

Ah, so Brian thinks he's been making eyes at the girl in the frilly frock. As if he could even make out her face at this distance. But a part of him sees Brian's words as a challenge. "Don't be too sure about that. I diddled with a baroness once."

"Oh really? The baroness of what, Spitalfields?"

Truth be told, Roger's not so sure about the baroness part. But she'd worn real silk stockings and a subtle, heady perfume and her hands had been as soft as her milky white buns. That's good enough for him. "I could tell you, but I've been sworn to secrecy. And besides, I never tell on a lady."

Brian snorts and gives him a stern look. "Right."

Okay, so he might have bragged about his conquests occasionally. Once or twice. But he never named names. Brian's just jealous because he never gets any further than making cow eyes at a girl he likes.

Roger turns back to his sketch pad, rolling his shoulders.

"I still can't believe you made me do this, you know."

When Roger looks up, Brian has turned around and is looking back at the shadow on the horizon that is Ireland's coast. There's a dark cast to his face, the shadow of everything he should have left behind.

"Hey, eyes up ahead", Roger says and stretches a hand in the direction they're going. There's the endless sea, shimmering promisingly in the sun, like an invitation. "That's where the future is."

Brian follows his gaze skeptically, but then his eyes grow wide. "By George, look at that!"

Roger laughs, happy that his friend is getting into the spirit. "Yes, I see it too. The statue of liberty, right there!" He jumps up and raises one arm like he's holding a beacon. "Veeery small of course."

"Not that, you pinhead!" He grabs Roger's arm and pulls him along towards the railing, gesturing at the water. "There!"

And then Roger sees it too. Dolphins, five or six of them, running fast just in front of the massive steel blade of the prow. They breach, jumping clear of the water and then dive back, crisscrossing in front of the ship and dancing ahead of it.

"Why are they doing that?" Roger asks, leaning over the railing to get a better view.

Brian watches the dolphins with a wide grin on his face. "No idea", he says. "But it looks like they're having a corking good time, don't they?"

As if on cue, two dolphins jump out of the water shortly after the other. They seem to be chasing one another, the water droplets skittering off them in all colours of the rainbow. Roger whoops, cheering them on, and Brian laughs out loud.

Roger looks over at his friend. It's the first time in forever that he's seeing him so full of unabashed joy. England had been making him miserable - his soul crushing job, his parent's expectations, that whole mess over his ex-fiancee. He had to change something, it's been so obvious to Roger, but ever since he set foot on the train to Southampton, he's been sullen, humming and hawing and questioning his decision at every turn. Roger had been half-afraid he might get off the ship and run back to London when they stopped in Ireland today.

But maybe some of the carefree joy of the dolphins playing in the water will rub off on his friend. Roger turns so his back is against the railing. The breeze is tugging at the strands of his hair that perk out from under his cap. "Oh, by the way. Did I tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"I figured out what we're going to do once we're in New York." They'd been rather hazy on that until now. Exploring Tin Pan Alley certainly featured. And the bars of the Tenderloin, for Roger at least. Brian has mentioned Columbia University a lot.

"And what's that?" Brian still hasn't taken his eyes off the dolphins.

"We'll become millionaires."

Now that gets Brian's attention. "Millionaires?"

Roger nods. "Yeah."

Brian gapes at him for a few moments, then he laughs. "Well. Glad that's sorted then."

"Right. So you can watch dolphins all day, and I'll drive along broadway in my brand new Isotta Fraschini, a svelte American dame next to me, and when we get bored, we get together and play music for all our friends in our enormous house."

"We'll have an enormous house?"

"Of course!" Didn't Brian catch the part where they are millionaires? "On Wall Street!"

"With a view of Central Park too?" Looks like Brian is getting into the spirit of the thing.

"And a cellar full of champagne!" Roger raises his bottle of lemonade, giddy with the prospect of a bright future ahead of them. "Cheers, my friend!"

Brian takes the bottle from him, shaking his head, but smiling widely. "Cheers mate", he says, "to dolphins, music and champagne!

Behind them, the coast has sunk beneath the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's to answer the most pressing question of all: But what does their hair look like? Let me tell you, I spent _a lot_ of time on this question. 
> 
> Brian looks something like this, although he's 21 rather than 15. He spends a lot of time every day combing it down with hair oil.  
> 
> 
> Freddie's hair is also short and parted sideways, a bit like in this school boy pic (although even shorter).  
> 
> 
> The closest pic I have for Roger is this, courtesy of the lovely nastally, although imagine it a little shorter and without the "look ma, I cut it myself"-fringe. He also wears a newsboy cap when he's outside.  
>    
> Alright, so we've set sail and are on our way. Let me know what you think! 😊


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW Death Wish & Suicidal Ideation
> 
>  **Soundtrack:**  
> [Blanche Ringe - Come Josephine In My Flying Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C71EmjRtiH0). It was a smash hit in the early 1910s.  
> Thanks to [emma_and_orlando](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/pseuds/emma_and_orlando) and [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally) for their beta work. It's an honour to have you on board!

#### Thursday, 11th April

Freddie makes it through lunch, tea, dinner, and half-way through his after-dinner brandy.

He sits in the green leather armchair and tries not to throw up. The thick cigar smoke in the air is choking him, the conversation - investments and business ventures and stock listings – dull beyond words. Of course, this _should_ interest him. This is his opportunity to make connections, get a feeling for the market in America, present himself as an astute business partner. But all he can think about is how much he wants to lock himself up in his suite, with his piano and the beautiful paintings he’s been allowed to bring along.

How much he craves silence.

If only he were allowed to retreat with the ladies after dinner. The atmosphere wouldn’t be any less formal and society gossip is not his forte, but at least he'd be spared the bragging and the constant need to outshine each other. And he'd have Kash by his side, not only his sister, but his best friend. His _only_ friend.

Surely Cy would have something to say about him fitting in better with the women. His father certainly would.

Freddie washes down the rest of his brandy and excuses himself from the group, feeling the pitying gazes of his company boring into his back as he strides out of the room.

He walks through the cool night air as if in a dream. The smoke, the conversation, the _people_ had been like a leaden weight on him, every insipid word adding a few extra ounces. His head is clad in a thick layer of wool, sluggish and out of tune. This is happening more and more often, and Freddie wonders - in a detached part of his mind - if this is going to become a permanent condition a hundred more dinner parties into his future.

His hands close around something damp and cold. He looks down and sees his fingers clutching the top rung of the railing. He has reached the very front of the ship without even noticing. Freddie bends over the railing. Far below him, the water is being sliced by the sharp prow of the ship. The sight has his stomach in knots, his heart racing. He's not built for heights, but as he takes in a deep breath of that cold air, it’s like the steel bars around his chest loosen for the first time tonight.

He holds on to the bar and leans forward, into the wind, the salty air, the rumbling of the bow wave breaking. He must look like a figurehead, his hair whipping in the wind, escaping the confines of brilliantine strand by strand.

He grabs one of the steel cables connecting the prow to the mast and sets one foot on the lowest rung of the railing. It feels slippery under his dress shoes and his knees are shaky. But his pounding heartbeat disperses the fuzziness in his head and he quickly joins it up with his other foot. It all comes back to him - the smell of sea-water and freshly painted iron plates in his nose, the taste of salt in his mouth, the sting of the cold April wind in his eyes. He is wide awake and reveling in the excitement dancing in his blood.

His shins are pressed into the railing and his feet hooked on the lowest rung. If he leans forward, there will be nothing but the sea and the air and the starry sky around him.

Very slowly, he takes his hand off the railing.

A single drop of sweat runs down his neck and vanishes in his wing collar. The roar of a million droplets of water clashing beneath him is singing in his ears.

He lets go of the cable too, letting his feet and his shins and three metal rungs take his entire weight. Dizzy with daring, he lifts his arms to his sides and the brandy and the cigars and the stale conversation is washed away. The endless sea is stretching out before him like a star-studded velvety carpet. He is like a bird flying above the water, free to land wherever he wants.

He leans his head back and opens his eyes to the starry night sky, imaging them as a thousand little stage lights directed on him. "Come Josephine in my flying machine", he hums. "Up she goes, up she goes." He stands tall and proud, his back arching gracefully like that of the dancer he always wanted to be. A creature suspended between heaven and earth. A messenger of the gods. "Balance yourself like a bird on a beam. In the air she goes..."

The wind rushing around him feels solid, like an embrace he can let himself fall into. Strong arms that will carry him, comfort him, set him free...

"The hell d'you think you're doing, mate?"

For one heart-stopping moment he doesn’t know whether he’s flying or falling, still standing or already toppling over. Then the steel rungs assert themselves beneath his feet as his fantasy crumbles away. What’s left is a grown man indulging children's games, escaping into the world of dreams instead of meeting reality.

His head whips around, the heat rising in his cheeks at being caught out like that. There’s a boy, no older than him, with a cap on his head and a cigarette between his fingers.

Freddie fumbles for an answer. "What's it to you.”

"That's... that's really dangerous what you’re doing there. Get off there!" The boy takes a few steps towards him.

"Stay away from me", Freddie shouts, feeling the panic rise within him. How long had he been watching him? Had he heard him sing? _Like a braying sheep._ He sways as a breeze hits him.

The boy stops, eyes wide with alarm, hands raised. "Alright, easy there."

Freddie stays rigid, frozen in place. What's he going to do? He just wishes the boy would go away so he can slink back inside and curl up in his bed. He can't face the humiliation of climbing down and having to face the man and all his embarrassing questions. His knowing eyes. _Playing ballerina again, Bucky? Don't you know there aren't any ugly ballerinas?_. "Go away."

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn't, he just stands there, eyes mercilessly fixed on him. "I'm afraid I can't do that", he says finally and then adds, "sir", like he's only just taken in Freddie’s fine evening wear. He doesn't move, but extends a hand. "Please, take my hand."

Somehow, through the fog of shame and panic, Freddie realises that the man is not laughing at him. He's dead serious. He's... Good gracious, he thinks Freddie is trying to... "What's it to you", he says, looking straight ahead, out into the night.

"Come on", he says, ignoring Freddie's words and inching closer. Then, a few seconds later, "Whoever she is, she can't be worth all that."

Freddie turns his head to him again, completely bewildered. There's a light smile tugging at the boy's lips. He's got quite a handsome face. Open and delicate. He realises he joined in the smile accidentally and pulls his upper lip back over his teeth. _Hold that closed. No one wants to see that._

"Or if she is", he goes on, smelling a winning strategy, "boy, do I want to meet her."

Freddie scoffs, trying not to laugh out loud. "I'm not this isn't about... Just leave me alone." Please, please go and let me crawl away with the last shreds of my dignity intact.

"Certainly not."

"There's nothing you can do anyway."

There's no answer, but a rustle of clothing makes Freddie look again despite himself. What he sees makes his head spin. "What are you..." His voice falters and he stares, slack jawed as the boy shrugs out of his corduroy jacket, tosses it carelessly aside, then bends down to untie his shoes.

He looks up at Freddie, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes. "I'm a good swimmer", he says, as if that's a completely normal thing to say.

Clearly this person is out of his mind. "But that wouldn't... the impact alone would be enough to kill you."

The boy hums in agreement. "And if it doesn't, the icy water would finish us off quickly enough." He kicks off his shoes and walks up towards the railing until he's about two yards away from Freddie. He leans over it and looks down the drop nonchalantly. "Gotta try though, don't I?"

There are a few seconds of silence as Freddie is trying feverishly to think of something to say. "You're insane."

"What, _I'm_ insane", he asks and crosses his arms. He looks both amused and offended. "You've got some nerve. Er, sir."

Freddie closes his eyes. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then he presses his lips together and nods. The game is up. The boy is not going to go away and Freddie’s not going to risk another person’s life just so he can take the coward’s way out.

“What’s your name”, the boy asks. “I’m Roger.” Two remarkable blue eyes blink up at him. How hasn't he noticed them before?

"Fa- Frederick Bulsara," he stammers, thrown at the familiarity.

"Bull-what?" The boy quickly shakes his head. "Sorry, that’s not important right now, I-"

"Bulsara", Freddie repeats quietly.

“Roger Taylor.” It sounds so confident how he says it. _Taylah_. Brash. Like he's never hidden from anything in his life. “Come on, let’s get you off there.”

The boy throws the cigarette, which has long gone cold, overboard. Freddie follows its flight with his eyes. It disappears in the darkness of the ocean, where the waves are clashing against the prow of the ship so far below. The only thing holding him is the slippery metal rung under his feet. His legs are like putty, his stomach turns. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to be on the ground and as far away from that railing as he can.

He throws out a hand for the cable next to him and screams as a sharp pain stings his palm. He bends down for the railing with his good hand, overbalances and in panic throws his feet backwards to get them on the deck, but his heel is stuck and...

Falling. He's falling. In one heart-stopping moment, the world tilts and the ground disappeared from beneath his feet. He's aware of a scream ringing through the air, but it barely registers over the panic of tumbling over.

A voice cuts through the thundering of the waves ready to swallow him. "I've got you." Freddie looks up and there's Roger, hanging halfway over the railing, clutching his hand in a grip so hard it hurts. "I won't let go."

Freddie flails with his free hand and grabs a hold of a slippery rung. He kicks out with his feet to get a foothold on the hull of the boat, but it's too smooth and he dangles precariously. A wave of panic crashes over him and he twists and turns as he tries to get away. "Help me!"

"Hold still, hold _still_ , I've got you", Roger repeats, teeth grit with effort. "Listen. On count of three, I want you to pull yourself up with your right hand. Try to reach the next rung, okay? I'll help you!"

Freddie looks up. The rung is at least 10 inches away and his shoulders are already burning from the stretch and the effort to holds himself up. But there's nothing else he can do and his palm is slippery with sweat and blood in Roger's grip, so he nods.

On Roger's signal, he puts all his strength into one giant heave. It's costing him every ounce of will to actually let go of the rung and fling his arm upwards in a desperate bid to grab the next one. On its own his hand would have would have slipped, but Roger is putting all his strength into pulling him up as well and together they manage to hold on. There is a horrible moment when Freddie feels one of Roger's hands let go of his own, but before he can protest he feels fingers grabbing a fistful of his clothes. Freddie grabs at Roger, hears a seam on his threadbare shirt rip, but it holds.

With one giant heave he tumbles over the railing, the momentum pushing them both over. "Jesus Christ Almighty", Roger curses as Freddie lands on him with his full body weight.

His cheek is smushed into Roger's shoulder, the coarse linen of his shirt pressing against his skin. The scent of wool and tobacco and fresh sweat from his exertion surrounds Freddie, clings to him, making him feel light headed. Quickly, Freddie rolls onto his knees. There are blood spatters on Roger's shirt where Freddie has gripped it. He lifts a shaky hand to his eyes to inspect it. His palm is streaked with blood. Now that he is out of immediate danger he feels the sting. The steel cable he tried to grasp must have been cracked.

Freddie takes deep breaths through his nose, trying to calm himself down. He barely realises that next to him Roger picks something up from the deck, eyeing it curiously. Before he has truly gathered his wits about him the sound of running feet makes him look up. Two stewards and a sailor, who must have been alerted by his screams are thundering towards them. It's a matter of seconds before one of them is shouting at Roger and shoving him away.

“Leave him”, Freddie yells, but it makes no difference. Of course not. Here he is, dressed to the brim in his tails, splattered with blood and his clothes in disarray. One of the stewards crouches down to check on Freddie. As he comes close, his eyebrows rise in recognition. He turns to his colleague. "Fetch Mr Wadia."

~~~

“What made you think you could do this, huh? Look at me, you filth!" He pushes a hand against Roger's chest, making him stumble back. "What did you think you were doing?!”

“Cy, stop that.” It doesn’t seem like he even hears Freddie. It seems like no one does.

Cy had appeared along with Colonel Gracie, who he'd been drinking brandy with, his valet Lovejoy and the Master-at-arms, who immediately put Mr Taylor in handcuffs. As if he could get very far, considering they're on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic. And then Cy, radiating irritation and also revelling in the opportunity to have a go at someone, got right up in the boy's face and started shouting abuse at him.

"Bring him inside", Lovejoy says to the steward who’s been dabbing at Freddie’s palm with a cloth. "Make sure the ship surgeon sees to him."

Freddie takes the cloth and waves the steward away. "I'm alright", he says. It’s just a small cut, there’s really no reason to see the surgeon about it. He takes a deep breath and gets up. The last thing he wants to do is explain the situation, expose himself to ridicule, but he cannot let this man, Taylor, take the fall.

He owes him this much.

"We'll handle this", Lovejoy says and tries to get a hold of his arm, but Freddie quickly steps aside and hurries over to the group by the railing.

Freddie puts his hand on Cy's shoulder and pulls him away none too gently. "Leave him alone, Cy. It's a misunderstanding."

Cy looks from Mr Taylor to Freddie with a comically disbelieving expression on his face. "A misunderstanding?" He holds up the golden pocket watch that Taylor had picked up from the deck just before the crew men arrived. The chain must have broken while he manhandled Freddie back over the railing. "How can this be misunderstood?"

"This man, he... he was... assisting me."

"With what?" Cy is clearly struggling to imagine a scenario in which the likes Mr Taylor could possibly be of help.

Freddie speaks slowly, making up the story as he goes along. "I had been leaning over the railing. I thought I might see the... someone had been telling me about the dolphins, you know? I slipped and then almost tumbled over." He's speaking faster now, with more confidence. It's still an embarrassing story, but better than the truth. "Mr Taylor just, er, happened to come by. He took a hold of my coat at the last second and pulled me safely back on deck." He licked his lips in a nervous gesture, then he looks directly at Roger, silently pleading with him to support his story. "Without him, I'd very likely have gone overboard."

A tense silence stretches between the men as they ponder this unlikely story.

The Master-at-arms looks at Taylor. "Was that the way of it?"

Freddie is staring at him, imploring him to just say yes.

"Yes", Mr Taylor says with an impassive voice. "That's pretty much it."

There's another moment where everyone is holding his breath. Then the Colonel laughs and claps his hands together. "Well, the boy's a hero then", he exclaims and turns to the Master-at-arms. "Why's he still in handcuffs? Unshackle him already!"

"Yes, Colonel." The Master-at-arms hastens to free Roger.

Cy takes a step back, a frown on his face. He looks a bit caught out by his outburst and smoothes his hair back. "See the dolphins?" he asks, incredulous, and slaps Freddie hard on the back. "How much brandy did you have?"

Freddie shrugs him off with a forced smile and focuses on Roger instead. "You have my gratitude. If there is any way in which I can return the... the favour", he says, "don't hesitate to let me know. In any case, I will make sure you are compensated adequately for your assistance." He takes in the blood spatters on Roger's clothes. "And your shirt."

Roger shakes out his freed hands. "That's very kind, sir", he says. "But really not necessary. I'm glad you... happy to help, is all."

Freddie gives a small nod. "Please. For my sake. I don't know how else to... how to thank you." For playing along. For not seeing the truth. Also for saving his life, although Freddie isn't entirely sure if that would have been necessary at all if he hadn't come along and distracted him in the first place.

Also, the cynical part in him notes, better pay him voluntarily before he realises the blackmail potential in this. He doesn't seem the type. But many people don't.

Just as the group is about to head back inside, Cy suddenly turns around as if he had just remembered something. He grins at the boy with a wide, hideous smile. "Mr Taylor", he says. Freddie's heart sinks. Nothing good can come of this.

The boy looks up. "Mr… Wadia, innit?"

Is it just Freddie or did Roger's accent just drop several registers?

"While I'm sure that Mr Bulsara's reward will be more than adequate, I still feel obliged to personally express my gratitude for your aiding my sister's fiancé so valiantly."

"I thank you, Sir, you are too kind." He is being perfectly humble and polite, but there's something in the way his perfectly straight teeth flash when he smiles that tells Freddie it's an act. "I merely..."

"So I thought, wouldn't it be nice to have Mr Taylor over for dinner tomorrow evening?" Cy turns to Freddie and the Colonel with an exaggerated smile. "To regale our group with your", he turns back to the boy, arms outstretched, "heroic tale?"

He's mocking him. He's trying to get his own back by turning him into a laughing stock. To him, this is just a great opportunity to make fun of the uncouth steerage ruffian with his pals, while humiliating Freddie with his "almost falling off the ship"-story at the same time. Freddie clenches his jaw.

But Taylor is not taking the bait. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'll..."

"Ah well." Apparently, Cy is determined to never let him finish even a single sentence. "Probably best. It'll be all business and politics and arts, that sort of thing. Wouldn't interest you."

Suddenly, the smile on the boy's face is transformed. Freddie can't quite bring himself to look away. "Thank you, Mr Wadia. It is an honour I cannot decline. Of course I will come."

Oh no. As usual, Cy gets what he wants. Of course it also means that Freddie is going to see Mr Taylor again, which is... he ignores the excited tickle in his stomach. Which is not a good a thing. It's a reminder of this horrible evening he'd rather forget. An opportunity for holes to be picked in his story. And it'll be a humiliation for the boy.

Cy is clearly surprised at the change in his demeanor, but he takes it in his stride. "Ah. Very well." He winks at Freddie like it's a shared joke. "See you at dinner, then."

When they're a few steps way, Cy leans towards the Colonel. "This should be amusing", he mutters and the two share a chuckle.

Freddie throws the boy a quick, apologetic glance over his shoulder, hoping he hasn't heard. His bright blue eyes are not on Cy, but on Freddie.

* * *

Roger's mother always told him to stop meddling, especially when it comes to the affairs of his betters. When he'd suddenly found himself locked in a stranglehold by 200 pounds of overzealous Scottish sailor for having saved the life of some toff with a death wish, for the first time he wanted to agree with her.

It's a cold night and he quickly slips his jacket back on. As he steps into his shoes, he looks after the three men hurrying inside, Mr Bulsara throwing him one last worried look over his shoulder.

The grim-looking valet, Lovejoy, stays a moment longer to get his name and cabin number, writing it down on a small notepad.

Roger leans against the railing. "Can I bum a cigarette?"

Lovejoy takes out a silver cigarette case and holds it open to him. Roger takes a cigarette and places it between his lips, then, just to be annoying, takes a second to tuck it away behind his ear for later. Lovejoy doesn't move a muscle. He even gets out a lighter to light it for him.

He nods down at Roger's feet. "You'll want to tie those", he says. "Lots of stairs to stumble on out here."

Roger takes a deep drag of his cigarette, enjoying the smooth, high-quality tobacco smoke filling his lungs.

"Interesting", the valet goes on, "that the young gentleman slipped so mighty all of a sudden and you still had time to take off your jacket and shoes."

Roger meets his unmoving, cold gaze and lets the smoke trail out from between his lips. He's not going to be intimidated by some lackey. Even if he could outstare a lizard.

When he's finally alone, Roger slouches a little and begins the long, slow walk over the deck towards the back of the ship. He could have taken a closer entrance, but he needs the air and the open space around him to clear his mind.

He really doesn't consider himself a stupid person. But he realizes that agreeing to Wadia's invitation - well, challenge, really - in the heat of the moment had not been his smartest move. The best case scenario is that everyone involved has an enormously awkward dinner conversation centered around avoiding the fact that he is dirt poor and doesn't belong.

Oh well, at least there's going to be champagne.

Once he's reached the four-berth cabin deep in the bowels of the ship he climbs up into his bunk and plunks down with a sigh. The room is tiny and windowless, but very clean and it has even got its own wash-basin. It's better than most of the places he's holed up in. He shares the cabin with Brian, who's already deep asleep in the lower bed, and two Swedes, who are the remainder of a group of four. Their cousins had been stupid enough to bet their tickets in a game of poker against Roger. They're decidedly not happy about this, but so far haven't attempted to beat him up or chuck him overboard, which Roger counts as a win.

Roger stretches out comfortably and pulls up his blankets around him. Mr Frederick Bulsara. The man could easily have let him take the fall instead of offering up this awkward dolphin story. A failed robbery would have been a much more convenient tale for him. But instead he cleared Roger's name as soon as he got the chance, although it made him look foolish. So he's not a coward, not without principles. Rich too, obviously, educated and well connected. What could drive a man like that to consider ending it all?

The fact that he's apparently engaged to the sister of the most obnoxious American on the planet might have something to do with it. It's a good thing Roger had been in cuffs most of the time, otherwise he might have punched Cy and then he'd have been in real trouble.

But surely, an insufferable brother-in-law can't be reason enough, right? Also, when Roger first saw him, he didn't look desperate, instead he looked as if he were lost deep in fantasy, arms stretched out to the sides and humming to himself, like he was lost in a flight of fancy. Perhaps he's delusional? A lunatic? He didn't seem at all like that when they talked, but who knows what's going inside his head. Roger is itching to ask Brian about it, but his friend is slumbering peacefully in the bunk below him and he gets so grumpy when he’s woken up at night.

Frederick had looked young, no older than Roger. His accent was pure English, but his exotic dark looks and his name remind Roger of Nadim, who he'd known in France. Maybe his family is originally from Arabia or India, come to money in England. Roger can't wait to ask him about it. He'll have so many interesting stories to tell. Not to mention those mesmerising dark eyes.

Maybe accepting the invitation to dinner _had_ been a good idea after all.

Roger presses his head into the pillow. The sooner he goes to sleep, the sooner tomorrow will come. And he can't wait to get to know more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the movie, the first meeting takes place on Friday the 12th. In this story, it happens one day earlier.
> 
> "Bucky" is a derogative nickname for people with overbites/"buck teeth". According to some sources Freddie was called that at school - he definitely was in this story.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented and kudoed on the first chapter! 😊 You guys are a treasure!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> [Mussorgsky - Pictures at an Exhibition](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BMg_A8eYweY)
> 
> Thanks to [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally) for her beta work (and cheerleading)! 😘
> 
> I'm trying out a work skin to translate period typical expressions that might be unfamiliar. If you see an underlined word, hover the cursor over it or tap it and you will see a translation. I hope it works! (If it doesn't, make sure you **didn't** check "Hide creator's style" at the top. If it still doesn't work, please let me know, because I want to use the skin extensively in a later chapter.)

#### Friday, 12th April

##### 9pm, Third-Class Dining Room

"A dinner party?" Brian gestures with his fork, a stripe of fried ham dangling precariously from it. "Upstairs?"

Roger nods cheerfully and shovels another spoonful of porridge into his mouth. Meals are included in the tickets and he's determined to leave the ship with at least ten extra pounds to spare.

" _You?_ "

"Why not me", Roger asks, munching through his mouthful. Seriously, Brian is looking at him like he's been dragged straight from the gutter. He washes the porridge down with some lukewarm but strong tea. "I know plenty of nobs."

Brian raises his eyebrows. "Ah, the famous baroness?"

"For instance." So maybe Roger has never dined with them at a formal dinner party. But he's met a lot of top shelfers among the crowd of artists and bohemians in the fashionably disreputable parts of Paris and London.

"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."

"Nope", Roger admits and scrapes the last dregs of porridge from his bowl. "But they don't either." He points at Brian's plate where strips of meat are slowly congealing in their own fat. "You gonna finish that?"

Brian pushes his plate towards him. "Good Lord, no they don't. I almost wish I could be there to see it." Brian looks at him fondly, then he dabs his mouth with a serviette. He quirks one eyebrow at Roger. "You're going to miss one hell of a party tonight, though."

"Party? What party?" How come Brian knows about a party and he doesn't?

"Got talking with one of the Irish blokes down the corridor after dinner. They've already got some players, but at some point they might need a replacement fiddler." He raises his eyebrows at Roger. "Or someone on the Bodhran with a nice, tenor voice?"

"Shit." Roger lets the fork clatter onto the plate. Being stuck at a dinner party with a bunch of toffs suddenly loses a lot of its glamour. There'd been an impromptuo do the first night after they set sail and on the other nights smaller gatherings formed in the corridors and common rooms. It's not like anyone has got to be anywhere in the morning. But this sounds big. And it's been ages since he and Brian played together like this.

Brian looks a bit smug." So, a formal dinner party. What are you going to wear?"

"Ah", Roger says and twirls the fork between his fingers. He cocks his head to the side and lets his eyes grow big and innocent. "About that."

~~~

The suit is too long in the legs and sleeves and too tight around... everything. It's not that Roger is in any way big boned, just that Brian is the lankiest man on earth.

"Maybe if you hunch over just a bit in the shoulders", Brian says, "And we can pin up the trouser legs and sleeves."

Roger cranes his neck to get a look at himself in the small mirror over the wash basin. "Hunch over?" He puffs out his chest and the seams creak audibly.

Brian smacks his arm. "Stop that immediately. Do you have any idea how much I paid for this?"

Yes, he does. Brian had been agonising over the expense for weeks. Roger wants to take a deep breath, but stops when he notices that this is only going to stretch the fabric even more over his chest. He opens the buttons of the jacket and rolls his shoulders. Much better. "Can't I just wear it like this?"

"The jacket is supposed to be closed, except when you're sitting down", Brian says. "But I don't think it really matters since this entire outfit isn't appropriate attire anyway. You're supposed to be wearing evening dress."

Roger shrugs. It's the best he can do. They're not honestly expecting him to carry a tailcoat and tophat around with him, are they? He sits down carefully on the bed to see if the tight trousers allow for that. They do, but only just and he won't be able to stuff himself at dinner. Which is a shame.

"There's got to be dozens of tailors and seamstresses on this ship", Roger muses. In fact he chatted with one just the other night. An Irish gal, what was her name? Aileen? Aoife? Eavan? But they really hadn't got far enough to exchange cabin numbers or anything.

"I'll see if I can find us some pins at least, so we can-" A knock on the door interrupts Brian.

A steward pokes his head in. "A message for Mr Taylor."

It's a creme envelope of thick, textured paper, bearing his name in an elegant cursive script. The card inside contains a formal invitation to dinner. Roger puts it on the small shelf on top of the water tank above the sink. The opulent card fits there about as well as he fits into the suit.

"See", he says to Brian with his best cheeky grin, "I'm not making any of this up." But he doesn't feel cheeky. That card is a reminder of how much he doesn't belong in this world he's going to enter. He'll be a laughing stock in his ill-fitting, inappropriate suite, just like Cy Wadia must have intended. He'd much rather just stay down here and have a pint or five with Brian and make music and maybe see if he can get anywhere with that Irish girl.

But before he puts the envelope away, he notices there's something else in it. A small piece of ordinary writing paper. He pulls it out. A handwritten note, asking him for a walk on the promenade deck in the afternoon, signed by F. Bulsara. His heart does a double-beat. So he's going to see him again, alone, without all the trappings of a dinner party. Without bloody Wadia and that stuffy Colonel.

He slips the note into his breast pocket and turns to Brian. "Let's get those pins."

* * *

##### 3pm. First-Class Promenade Deck

Although he dresses with as much care as he can muster, combs his hair several times, walks so slowly that even elderly couples stroll past him, Freddie's still at the designated spot 15 minutes early. He walks a couple of rounds in the bright sunshine, cursing himself for being so nervous. He really shouldn't be. This is just an opportunity to express his gratitude to someone who did him a favour.

The wind is ruffling his hair and he runs a hand through it to smooth it down and tuck the stray curls back beneath his hat. It takes forever every morning to get it to lie down flat, and the slightest disturbance is enough to have it curl up again. It's even worse out here, where there's always a fine salty mist hanging in the air.

He really shouldn't have asked Mr Taylor to meet him out here. It seemed more appropriate somehow, but maybe they should head inside. There's a café on the A-deck that's not too stuffy, perhaps they can-

"...lo? Mr Bulsara?"

Freddie whirls around, yanking his hand away from his hair. He looks right into the smiling face of Roger Taylor under an absolutely hideous hat. Heaven knows how long he stood there trying to get his attention, while Freddie was playing with his hair like a halfwit. "I... Good afternoon, Mr Taylor", he says, falling back on the manners drilled into him in this time of need, and offers his hand. "So glad you could make it."

His hand his taken in a strong grip. "Roger, please."

"Er." Freddie is taken aback. That man is being very familiar, very quickly. Suddenly he feels very old-fashioned and prim and desperately wishes he weren't. "In that case you must call me... Frederick. Or Freddie, as you wish."

"Freddie", Mr Taylor - _Roger_ \- repeats. His lively blue eyes are fixed onto his own.

The only other person to call him that is Kash, and only when they're alone. It feels very inappropriate in an exciting way.

Freddie extracts his hand, clears his throat and takes a step back. It's only now that he really takes what Mr- what _Roger_ is wearing. Both the hat and the dark suit are of decent quality, but obviously not his. The sleeves and trouser legs look like they've been provisionally shortened and the trousers are, they are just... His eyes snap up quickly to Roger's face.

"Whatever _are_ you wearing", Freddie blurts out, indicating his outfit, making sure his eyes don't stray below the indecently tight waistline. Then he realises insulting the man's outfit is probably not the most auspicious start to their conversation. "So sorry, I..."

Roger looks down at himself, then back up at Freddie. "My tailor swears this is the latest fashion." He frowns exaggeratedly, then puts his hands on his hips and says in what he must think is an upper-class accent, "D'you think I've been hoodwinked, old chap?"

The sight is so ridiculous that Freddie bursts out laughing, realizing a horrified second later that its his big ugly laugh that shows all his teeth. He snaps his mouth shut and wants to cry. He's used to feeling caught on his back foot, its just the condition called life for him. But now the sting of his awkwardness feels as fresh and painful as it hasn't in years, like a wound that's been ripped open anew.

He turns around and takes a deep breath, then throws out a shaky arm to indicate the length of the promenade deck. "Shall we take a walk", he grinds out.

Freddie keeps his eyes straight ahead and doesn't dare to look at Roger, who's easily fallen into step next to him. "So", he says, eager to get this over with. "I want to thank you for what you did. Not just for... for pulling me back. But for your discretion."

"Sure. I'm glad you-"

"I just don't want you to think", Freddie cuts him off impulsively. "I don't want you to think I'm... because I'm not." Great. Yes, that makes everything so much clearer. He dares a quick glance at Roger's open face. He looks a bit puzzled.

"Look, it's really none of my business", Roger says. "Just, if there's something I can do, which I probably can't, but perhaps-"

"No, no, no", Freddie says with a sigh. "I'm not..." Maybe it would have been easier to just leave him to his assumptions. But somehow it feels important that he knows. "I really wasn't trying to... to jump."

"So, what _were_ you doing?"

Obvious follow-up question. One for which Freddie has tried to come up with answer all morning, in vain. "I was merely..." He feels himself getting irritated. Why should he have to explain himself to this man at all? "Oh, what is it to you", he snaps and stops in his tracks, turning around so he's facing Roger, arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Look, _you_ wanted to talk to me about it." There's a frown on his face. Not cross, not yet, but annoyed.

"Yes, but not about..." Liar, his brain shrieks at him. Of course you want to tell him, have at least somebody understand what is going on with you. And you thought you could do it with him, but you can't, can you? He takes a deep breath. "So what are you doing on this ship?"

Roger is obviously thrown by the many hair-pin curves this conversation has taken, but he takes it in his stride. "I'm going to New York", he says as if that is an acceptable answer on a ship headed for New York.

"And what are you going to do once you are in New York?" Freddie tries to make his voice sound friendly and conversational. Roger is doing him a favour - again - by letting him steer the conversation. He should at least manage not to snap at him.

Roger leans against the railing and produces a cigarette he had tucked away behind his ear, then digs for matches in his pockets. "Going to be a millionaire", he says, matter of factly. His face darkens at Freddie's involuntary chortle. "What?"

Good lord, does he actually _mean_ that? "Er, nothing, that's... What line of business?"

"Oh, I haven't decided yet", he says as if that is merely an inconsequential detail. Freddie admires his spirit. He envies his carelessness. Hates him for making him feel so small in comparison. "Any tips?"

"Stay as far away from the cotton trade as you can."

"Cotton trade?" Roger grimaces. "Nah, that sounds dull." He lights the cigarette and lets the smoke trail out between his lips. "I was thinking more along the lines of Vaudeville star. Or night club owner. Gangster, perhaps?"

Freddie looks at his boyish face, his guileless smile. "You would either be eaten by the sharks within a week or be the most fearsome gangster boss in existence."

Roger laughs. "You think so?" He holds his crumply cigarette out to Freddie. When he hesitates, Roger shrugs, a bit embarrassed. "Sorry, only got the one."

Freddie takes it and puts it to his lips. It feels strangely intimate to touch the paper where Roger's lips had been just seconds ago. It's still a bit wet even. It should feel like a foul and disgusting thing to do. He coughs a little as the strong smoke stings his lungs. "Goodness", he says and hands it back with watering eyes.

"We've got to work on that if you're going to be my bookie."

"Your _bookie_?"

"A mob boss needs henchmen, right?" Roger takes another drag of the cigarette, his lips wrapping around it in a little pout. Freddie turns his eyes to a speckle of paint on the railing. Roger is clearly talking inconsequentially, but no one has ever asked him to be a henchman for anything. And he never thought about it but suddenly there's nothing he'd rather do.

"So you're in cotton then", Roger asks after a while.

"Wool, actually. Well, my father is", Freddie says. "The whole family really."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic."

Freddie shrugs. "It's wool. It's trade." How on earth could anyone be enthusiastic about that?

"And your brother-in-law, too?"

"Oh no, _he_ is in cotton. Completely different material."

"Exciting", Roger exclaims and claps his hands to the concern of two elderly ladies strolling by. "You _must_ tell me all about it!"

Despite himself, Freddie grins, hiding it behind the back of his hand. "His father came the US from India to establish relations for the Tata group, but then he branched out and established his own business, which Cy is going to inherit." As he reminds Freddie on a daily basis. 

"So it's like two trade imperiums merging in marriage?"

'Imperia', Freddie just about manages not to correct Roger. "Yes, something like that", he says. The reality is a lot more depressing, but he won't talk to a stranger about how he is such an embarrassment to his family that they'd rather ship him off to the other side of the world.

"So is she very pretty?"

"Who?"

Roger rolls his eyes. "Your fiancée!"

"That's... that's really none of your business, is it!"

"Oh, come on. A dark eyed Indian beauty?"

Freddie does have a picture of her, but he's certainly not going to show it to some ill-mannered lecher to ogle. "You'll never know", he grumbles.

Roger's expression softens. "Hey, no offence. You like her, though, right? I mean this isn't just about business."

Freddie wants to laugh. It's _all_ about business. Everything, his entire life, has been about bloody business. "I'm sure she is", he says.

Roger's eyes grow wide. "Hold on. You don't _know_?"

"It's not how these things are done", Freddie says.

"But what if she's like her brother?"

"I'm sure she's not... and he's not always... Don't talk about things you clearly don't understand", Freddie hisses. Why does he suddenly defend something he used to argue against endlessly?

"Clearly", Roger says and shakes his head.

"It has always been like that in my family", Freddie says. "My parents are very happy. And it makes good sense."

"Oh yes. Always must have _sense_ in love."

"I really didn't come here to have you insult me and my family."

"I'm not insulting you! I just... Christ, you people are weird."

Freddie bites the inside of his cheeks. "You people?"

"Yeah, you know." Roger makes a face and turns up his nose. "The _gentry_ or whatever."

"We're not..." But the tension in him is blown away, because even though Roger is clearly using the term as an insult, he also just casually lumped Freddie and his family in with the very group of people that always refused to accept them as their own.

Roger bites his lips, a sly grin appearing on his face as he takes in Freddie's consternation.

"You're being very rude", Freddie chides to hide the jangled emotions running through him. He makes a grab for the leather wrapper Roger has been carrying under his arm the whole time. "What's this?" He waves it in the air, unsure if he's going a bit too far, how Roger is going to react.

"Just some sketches." Roger makes a 'go ahead' gesture.

Freddie sits down on a deck chair with the folder so he doesn't accidentally send anything flying in the breeze. "You draw?"

"Nothing special. Just a bit of extra cash" Roger comes to sit next to him. "I like to have it with me in case I chance upon something worth drawing."

"And have you?" Freddie asks distractedly while loosening the leather strap that holds the folder closed. When he looks up at Roger, his heart stops for a second.

He's got a surprised smile on his face, his tongue peeking out just a tiny bit between his teeth. "Oh yes", he says and winks and Freddie flushes hotly all over, even while he's telling himself in the harshest tone that _he didn't mean it like that!_

Freddie opens the folder and looks down to escape those big blue eyes, but what he sees there are a pair of hands elegantly folded over a naked female chest, which... which doesn't help. Not one bit. He tries to hand the folder back to Roger, an apology on his lips because _obviously_ he isn't meant to see that, but Roger has leaned back in his chair and looks completely unruffled. The words die on Freddie's lips.

"Her name is Elodie. She has the most beautiful hands", he explains with a fond smile. Then he leans forwards and turns the page. A strand of his hair brushes Freddie's ear and he just about doesn't drop the folder. The next drawing shows the same hands, buried in a mass of dark hair. Her own or someone elses? It's drawn in a fluid, somewhat fleeting style - just a couple of strong lines with wisps of suggestive shadows to give it depth.

"These are good", Freddie says, slowly getting over the first shock at the subject and leafing through the portfolio. "Really good." And they're not all salacious either.

An old woman's hands, disfigured by arthritis, yet still busy lifting apples from a basket.

A boy, no more than 8 years old, standing alone beside a busy street, lost in a world of his own.

A father and his daughter at the railing of a ship, the breeze playing with the curly strands of the girl's hair.

"You're an artist then", Freddie says.

"Good God, no. I mean, I do earn a few bob every now and then with these, but I don't have the patience to be an actual artist. I could never do a whole oil painting."

"You sell them?"

"Sure, if anyone's interested." He takes the folder from Freddie and pulls some loose leaves from the very back. "These are my best sellers", he says with a grin.

It's a series of nudes. Soulful eyes, expressive hands, lovingly rendered curves.

"Are these drawn from life", Freddie asks, although he knows they are.

"Yup. That's one of the great things about Paris. Lots of girls willing take their clothes off."

"Paris? That's..." He stops, because the very next drawing is another nude, but the body is undoubtedly male, a muscular back tapering into a slim waist and then...

"Ah, yes", Roger says, rubbing a hand along his collar bone. "Lots of boys too."

Freddie doesn't dare look at him. What is he saying? Nothing probably. It has a respectable ancient tradition, the male nude, taught at art schools throughout the land. There's nothing scandalous about it.

The next page is another nude, the focus on a handsome face framed by dark curls. It's cut off above the hips - thank heaven! - but there's a smidgeon of a dark trail leading down from the man's belly button. Freddie clears his throat. "Paris, was it you said?"

"Hm, I was there for almost a year."

"You do get around. For a..." Freddie catches himself just in time. "For... someone with limited means", he finishes.

"Ah well, it's an interesting city", Roger says. "Got chummy with some students from the École Nationale. They taught me a lot."

Is Roger doing this on purpose? Implying immodest things with the most innocent expression. Or this is this just Freddie's filthy mind making it sound like that? It must be the latter. It always is.

Freddie closes the folder and hands it back, thoroughly disgusted with himself. "Thank you for showing me this."

"Are you interested in art then", Roger asks.

"Yes. In fact I've..." He stops himself just in time. He has got some beautiful paintings in his suite, some of the few treasures he's been allowed to take with him to America. But for heaven's sake, he cannot invite this man there, especially not when he's spent the entire afternoon making such a complete fool of himself. God, what must he be thinking.

"You what?"

"I, er. I used to draw myself. A bit." It's true, but not something he likes to share. But he has got to finish the sentence somehow, doesn't he?

"Really? Oh, that's smashing! You must show me-"

"Oh no, it wasn't all that, er, _smashing_."

"Why did you stop?"

Because it's another way to waste time that should be spent studying. Because _what is that supposed to be, a horse with antlers_? Because _you are going to fail that exam if you don't study, Farrokh_. Because... "Because I wasn't any good."

"But that's-"

"I believe it's about time we prepared for dinner." The bugle hasn't sounded yet, but a change of topic is very much needed.

Roger gets up from his chair with a huff. "Right. Well, I guess I'll see you later then."

"Wait", Freddie says and gets up as well. His instincts are telling him too flee inside and try to regain his composure before he's got to sit through this infernal dinner, but he's got to do this. This, at last, is where he can be useful. "What are you going to wear?"

Roger looks down at himself and holds out his arms.

"I really cannot let you go to dinner like that. You'd never even get in and even if you did, they'd rip you to shreds."

Roger raises one eyebrow. "That would be ambitious of them." His eyes narrow slightly and a stab of excitement goes through Freddie.

"Come on", he says and motions for Roger to follow him inside. "I have already arranged for it. You wouldn't want to make me feel like a bad host, would you?"

* * *

They draw a lot of looks as they hurry through the elegant first-class reception area. There's wood panelling everywhere and fresh cut flowers (wherever they get those from out here) and everything is so _hushed_.

"I'm sorry for the way my brother-in-law behaved towards you", Freddie says. "He's very..."

"American?"

"Exactly." A grin starts to bloom on Freddie's face, but he immediately purses his lips to hide it. He's done that countless times today. Everytime Roger had to fight the urge to tell him to stop.

"Don't worry about it." He isn't keen on meeting Cy again, but so far his afternoon has been very entertaining. He can't wait to see what the dining saloon will be like.

They come to stand in front of a mahogany door with the number C-64 inlaid in brass. Freddie knocks and a couple of seconds later, a young woman appears in the doorway. Her raven hair is piled up on top of her head and she's is wearing an elegant white-and-yellow-dress.

"Is she gone", Freddie asks her in a low voice.

"Tea with Mrs Douglas and some American ladies. We have at least an hour." She waves them inside and closes the door behind them. It's a marvellous room in gold and blue, rich dark wood and with actual windows opening to the sea. It looks like a sitting room with two doors leading out on the left and right hand side. Good lord, do these people have actual flats on this ship?

Roger tries not to look too dazzled by his surroundings. "Well", he says with his most winning smile and turns to the girl. "Hello there." He doesn't really know what's going on, but apparently Freddie plans for them to spend the next hour with a pretty lady and that's generally fine with him. "Milady."

She giggles and looks at Freddie, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh." Freddie seems to remember his manners. "Kash, this is Mr Taylor. I told you about him. Roger, Miss Kashmira Bulsara."

"Very pleased to meet you", Roger says. She has the same smouldering dark eyes as Freddie.

Freddie clears his throat. "My _sister_ ", he says with a stern voice.

Roger wants to shake her hand, but she's already turned away and walked over to a wardrobe. "It's most improper, Freddie, I must say. Bringing strange men into my cabin." But she doesn't look overly concerned with it.

"Don't worry", Freddie says with a sideways glance at Roger. "I'll be here to supervise the entire time."

"Supervise what, exactly?" Roger's getting a bit annoyed. He hasn't even _done_ anything.

"The fitting", Kash says and takes a coat hanger with a suit from the wardrobe door and carries it over to where Roger is standing. She eyes him critically from head to toe, blushing slightly. "What happened to his trousers", she asks Freddie.

Freddie shrugs. "Quite a daring cut, isn't it?"

Roger looks down at himself. So they are a bit tight around the hips, so what? Isn't that how fashionable gentlemen wear it these days?

"I can fix them up for you, if you like", Kash says.

For a second, Roger is tempted. Having a well-fitting suit would open him lots of doors. But Brian would murder him. He spent two months salary on this. "Thanks. I prefer it that way, actually."

She exchanges a look with Freddie, but doesn't say anything.

"Alright, well, lets start with the trousers anyway." She takes them from the hanger and puts them over the back of a chair next to him.

Slowly, Roger starts to understand what is going on. "Did you make me a suit", he asks, incredulous.

She rolls her eyes. "No, I'm not a sorceress. This is one of Freddie's. I already made some adjustments based on what he told me about your build." She turns to Freddie, one playful eyebrow raised. "For which he now owes me a colossal favour."

"Don't you mean a _titanic_ favour?"

Roger shrugs out of his jacket and unclips his braces. "So should I just..." He gestures at his trousers.

Two pairs of huge dark eyes stare at him for a moment. Their expressions are so similar Roger wants to laugh. Didn't they foresee that in order to put on a suit he'd have to take off his old one first?

"Yes", Kash exclaims finally and hurries in the direction of the door to the right. "I'll just get my... my pins and... things." Blushing bright red, she disappears through the door.

Roger bites his lips to hide his grin. He winks at Freddie, who's still staring at him, teeth peeking out just the tiniest bit between his lips, and gets started on his buttons.

"Sorry", Freddie says and whirls around on his heels, almost overbalancing when he comes to a stop, facing away from Roger.

Roger stills for a moment. "Really?"

Freddie waves an impatient hand backwards. "Just get on with it, will you?"

Roger scoffs and shakes his head. Toffs. Don't they usually get dressed and bathed by servants? But of course, that doesn't mean they want to see the servant class get dressed and washed.

"Decent", he yells when he's put on and done up the new trousers. They're a bit tight, but have a looser cut around the legs so it's not as bad as with Brian's suit.

"Yes", Kash says, all business as she inspects him. "Just as I thought. The length is perfect. You've got an inch or two on Freddie but it's almost all in your upper body." She walks around him. "You've got bit more..." She clears her throat. "Er, I'm going to let the seat out a bit."

Freddie barely seems to be listening. He's perched on a mahogany dresser, inspecting an intricate piece of wood carving.

"So are you going to to be at the party, too?" Roger asks while Kash scribbles down some notes.

"What party?"

"He means dinner", Freddie drawls.

"Yes, of course I'm going to be at dinner", she mumbles somewhat distracted as she adjusts a buckle at the back of his waist. "There", she says and takes a step back, hands on her hips. "Now the shirt."

It takes an age. Roger is told to stand this way and that, pricked with needles (twice) and after a while Freddie leaves his spot at the other side of the room and starts poking and prodding him as well. Meanwhile he and Kash seem to forget that he's a living, breathing human being and talk about him in an almost incomprehensible lingo.

"...should bring them up as well, don't you think?"

"Yes, and definitely add some darts here and here."

"His left shoulder is a little bit low, isn't it?"

"Yes, actually he's got poor posture overall..."

"Oi", Roger shouts and cranes his neck to look at the two critical faces currently inspecting his upper back. "I can hear you, you know?"

Finally, Kash claps her hands and exlaims "I think that's it then!" She disappears into the bedroom once more so Roger can take off the half-assembled wardrobe. Her silky skirt swings in time with her steps.

When he turns back, Freddie's staring sullenly out the window.

"Everything alright", Roger asks, shrugging out of the waistcoat and feeling the shirt with the weird stiff front fall open. There are buttonholes, but no buttons for some reason.

"Yes, fine", Freddie says.

Oh god, is he getting all worked up about Roger having eyes in his head? He must know his sister is a dolly. "Good", he says, refusing to respond to Freddie's tone. He undoes the dozens of tiny hooks holding his trousers closed, and just when he's done, a forgotten pin pricks his finger. "Ah, crap", he mutters. He throws a glance at Freddie. "Sorry."

Now Freddie actually looks at him, frowning. "I'm not actually a dainty lady, you know."

'No, but you act like one when a bloke takes his trousers off in front of you', Roger thinks. Which is... Huh.

Freddie had gone all tongue-tied when Roger had shown him those drawings too. He'd thought it was the girls, or maybe the fact that they were nudes in general, but maybe this is something else? Maybe this is more than just being stuck-up?

"Good to know", he says with a lop-sided smile that has earned him an invitation to stay the night more than once and shrugs out of the strange shirt-like contraption. This time, he actually _looks_ when Freddie's gaze slips down just for the briefest moment, then catches on his lips on the way back up. The air in the room is suddenly thick and warm, and Roger's breath catches in his throat when Freddie's dark eyes meet his.

"Yes", Freddie says and whirls around, picking up a book from the mantle-piece and inspecting it with a fierce and sudden interest. "Good."

Well. _Well_.

It's not that Roger's _like that_ , but he never minded that sort of attention either. Especially when it came from witty, good-looking art students with rich parents who might not only pose for him, but invite him to stay over whenever he needs a roof over his head and let him raid the pantry in the morning. But now...

Roger studies Freddie's tall, slim silhouette, the sharp line of his cheekbone just visible from how he's turned away. A light flush of red creeps out from under his high collar and into his neck. He's not classically handsome with his slight built and bony nose and frankly menacing teeth. But he's striking, all quicksilver movements and fluttering hands and - when he's not falling over his feet to keep the distance between him and Roger - a dancer's grace.

And this, now _this_ makes him wonder just how close Freddie is going to let him get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While researching, I came across the fascinating story of [Bhicaji Balsara](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bhicaji_Balsara). He was a business man who came to New York in 1900 and was one of the first Indians to become a naturalised US citizen, but only after he won a court case in which the judge argued that he (and other Parsis) counted as white. It offers a fascinating glimpse into the racial politics of the time. Cy's father is loosely based on him.
> 
> The breakfast fare Brian and Roger are enjoying is based on this menu:  
>   
> For the time, the food was extremely generous. On many other ships bringing poor immigrants to America, people had to bring their own provisions. Note that it's structured according to the traditional order of meals throughout the day - breakfast, dinner, tea, supper. In first class, the big dinner has already moved into the evening and they're having a light luncheon at mid-day instead.
> 
>   
> This is what Roger and Brian's cabin would have looked like. Also much above what was standard for third class at the time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> I Salonisti - [Wedding Dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K-8gqWEEIR8)  
> I Salonisti - [Marguerite Waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sLRDOxqmUB0)
> 
> 😘 to nastally and emma_and_orlando for their comments and corrections!

#### Friday, 12th April

##### 7 pm, First-Class Dining Room

Freddie hurries down the mighty wooden steps of the grand staircase with slightly more speed than strictly appropriate. He'd been looking for Roger in the reception area, but he hadn't been there.

He has no doubt that Roger will be let in if he's dressed in the tailcoat Kash fitted for him, but the thought of him wandering the lion's den of millionaires (and heiresses) alone makes Freddie queasy. A young man, unaccompanied and unknown, no matter how well dressed, will draw curious eyes and raise questions.

 _If_ he's well dressed, that is. Evening dress is difficult enough to put on even with years of experience and the help of a valet. What if he forgot to attach the collar? Or the cuffs? Or if he didn't manage to tie his bow? Or - mercy on us! - forgot to put in the studs that hold the shirt closed? The image of Roger in Freddie's unfastened dress shirt creeps into his mind unbidden, the fabric fallen open to reveal a slice of the creamy skin of his chest and belly.

He holds on to the carved, polished bannister a little harder.

It's only when he reaches the platform at the top of the last staircase that Freddie sees him. He fits in neatly in the mass of tailcoats and evening gowns that flow around him, yet once Freddie sees him he stands out so brightly that he could have pointed him out blindfolded.

His dark blond hair (too long to be appropriate) has been parted on the right and smoothed back with brilliantine allowing him to (just) pass as a gentleman. Kash really outdid herself with her needlework, but the coat is still a bit too tight, following every line of his body. He holds himself tall and upright, one arm behind his back. He must have copied the pose from the gentlemen milling about around him. He appears to be utterly at ease, if it weren't for his eyes which are round with astonishment at the exuberant luxuries surrounding him.

Just then, Roger looks away from the intricate hairdo of an elderly countess he he's been studying and as his gaze settles on Freddie, his face breaks into a warm, unguarded smile. It's only then that Freddie notices that he has slowed almost to a halt, that he is just standing there on the platform, all but gaping.

He hurries down the stairs to welcome his guest. Roger takes a few steps towards the bottom of the stairs as well, so that in the end Freddie has to stop two steps above him to avoid a collision.

"Good Evening, Mr Taylor", Freddie says, offering his hand. He tries to keep his tone formal and detached, but he knows that the smile he's holding back must be audible in his voice.

"Mr Bulsara." The corners of Roger's eyes crinkle as he takes Freddie's hand. "How lovely to be seeing you again."

God, he looks so happy at this little charade, so pleased that no one has called him out yet.

Before Freddie can reply he is startled out of the small bubble he's been in by a light hand on his upper arm. Kash looks arresting in her red and silver dress with the long white opera gloves. It must have taken her ages to sew on all the tiny glittering applications. 

"Kash!" He disengages his hand from Roger's and reaches for hers, greeting her with a small bow, as if they hadn't seen each other just that afternoon.

She smiles at him, but then her head turns towards Roger and her eyes grow wide. Freddie can't blame her.

"Oh. Ro... I mean. Goodness."

Roger reaches for her hand, bows deeply over it, _kisses it_ and comes back up with a charming smile, not letting go of her hand. "The famous Miss Kashmira. So glad to make your acquaintance", he purrs and that _tone_ is positively indecent.

Everything he does, from the way he addresses her to that impertinent smile to the hand kiss is completely wrong. It also works like a charm.

Kash, who's been fitting a suit for him not two hours ago, blushes right up to the tips of her ears. "I... oh, I'm not all that." She doesn't seem to be able to tear her eyes away from his face. Freddie fights the childish urge to position himself between them.

Roger's grin grows a little wider. "Not a 'Miss'?"

Kash makes a strangled noise "Ah, no, the um... the other one." She ducks her head, but is unable to hide her smile.

This is an outrage. Completely unacceptable. About time someone stepped in.

Freddie clears his throat and takes Kash's arm. "But she will be", he announces as he leads her down the stairs, not-so-accidentally placing himself between Kash and Roger, "once the great fashion houses of Paris take note."

"Oh, you're a fashion designer", Roger asks.

"Just dabbling", she says with that infuriating modesty of hers. Seriously, this dress she's wearing is the most well-designed garment in the entire room, if only those ignorant fools would take notice.

"I'll buy your clothes", Roger announces. "Once I've made my first million of course."

"Hm, I mainly do dresses though."

"Ah, I'm not particular", Roger says, whatever _that_ is supposed to mean. "Where's the food then? I'm starving!"

As they make their way towards their table, Freddie brings Roger up-to-date on the who-is-who. "Look, there's the Countess Rothes. And over there, that's John Jacob Astor... the richest man on the ship."

Kashmira cuts in. "His little wifey there, Madeleine, is barely older than me and she's in, er, delicate condition."

"Kash!"

"What, everyone knows that!" She cranes her neck to look around Freddie at Roger and whispers: "She's trying to hide it though. Quite the scandal."

Freddie tries to get the conversation back onto respectable tracks. "And over there, that's Sir Cosmo and Lucile, Lady Duff-Gordon."

"She designs naughty lingerie, among her many talents", Kash pipes up.

Freddie gapes at her. "What?"

She nods. "Very popular with the royals."

"How on earth do you know all that?"

"You would know too, if you stopped sulking in your room for a minute and came to have tea with me every once in a while."

Freddie can feel the heat creeping into his cheeks. Kash means it as friendly teasing, the way they always do, but Roger is right there listening to every word. He must already think of Freddie as a mental case, he doesn't need to hear all that. But luckily, it seems that Roger has tuned out for the last bit.

"But if that lady is a famous designer", he says to Kash, "can't you show her your dress or something?"

Kash gives a disbelieving laugh and looks at Freddie, asking him to explain.

"She can't just walk up to Lady Duff-Gordon and brag about her dress", Freddie says. "That would be..." He shakes his head. How can he explain something as self-evident as that. "They haven't been introduced."

"So introduce her then!"

"I can't introduce her!"

"Why not?"

Freddie takes a deep breath. "Because I don't know Lady Duff-Gordon either. It's just... it's not how it's done."

" _I_ could introduce you."

Both Kash and Freddie stare at Roger in horrified disbelief.

"What? I'll wait until later tonight, you know, and once she's got two or three drinks in her I'll just sidle up for a chat."

"Heavens", Kash mumbles, apparently having exactly the same kind of mental image Freddie does.

On some level, Freddie wants to see Roger do something completely outrageous like this, to stun everyone with his brazenness and his attitude. Except he's their guest, and allowing him to do that would not only cost Kash any prospect of ever getting a foot in the door with Lady Duff-Gordon, it would also bring shame on him, his family, his brother-in-law, his fiancé.

It's not how it's done.

They finally reach their designated table, where, to Freddie's dread, they cannot put off the meeting his mother and Cy any longer.

"Taylor", Cy cries out after a few seconds of trying to work out who the well-dressed man in front of him might be, "I didn't recognize you." He studies him from head to toe as if he were an exhibit in a zoo. "Amazing! You could almost pass for a gentleman."

Freddie works hard to keep his expression neutral and turns towards his mother instead.

"Text with Creator's Style turned off", he says with a small bow, "this is Mr Roger Taylor, whose assistance to me has been invaluable. Roger, Mrs Bulsara, my mother."

"How do you do." She offers him just the tips of her fingers, which Roger doesn't quite know what to do with. Thank heavens he doesn't try to kiss them. "Farrokh has told me how you have come his aid."

Freddie doesn't look at Roger. _Don't say anything_ , he pleads silently. _Please don't say anything._

"Fa- er." Roger breaks off and clears his throat. "Oh, sure. Glad to be of service, ma'am. Hardly worth mentioning."

Freddie releases the breath he's been holding. His mother resents his nickname and the last thing Freddie needs is for her to lecture him on it in front of Roger. Of course, he could, he _should_ have just told Roger about his real name, but somehow it never seemed the right time. Until it was too late.

"Well, I hope you enjoy the dinner. The fare has been excellent so far." His mother looks around. "Shall we sit down?"

To Freddie's relief, his mother picks up a conversation with Colonel Gracie after they've been seated. The less spotlight there is on Roger the better.

Their dinner companions aren't the Countess of Rothes or the Guggenheims, of course. Instead they are seated with a two middle aged American ladies, Mrs Margaret Brown and Mrs Helen Churchill Candee, and Colonel Gracie. The Colonel is an acquaintance of Cy and - if Freddie isn't completely mistaken - seems to have taken a shine to his mother. He'll have to ask Kash about that. She appears to have become an expert on these things.

Drinks are served and once the conversation gets flowing, the group seems quite taken with their dinner guest. Roger provides a wealth of new conversation topics to a group of people who have been having dinner together for several nights in a row and whose conversation has gone slightly stale. Freddie is pretty sure that apart from those who are already in the know, no one initially notices that he doesn't belong.

But of course Cy can be counted on. "Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Taylor", he says jovially with a sip of wine. "I hear they're quite good on this ship."

The rest of the guests exchange glances, but Roger takes it in his stride. "The best I've seen, really. Hardly any rats."

Mrs Brown, the loud American widow seated next to him at the head of the table laughs so hard that his mother visibly startles.

"Mr Taylor is joining us from third class", his mother explains. "He was of some assistance to my son last night."

A waiter leans over Roger's shoulder. "How do you take your caviar, sir", he asks in a low voice.

Freddie is dying to hear what Roger is going to say, but Cy butts in. "Just a soupçon of lemon." He smiles magnanimously at Roger. "It improves the flavor with the champagne."

With all his heart Freddie wants to wedge that soupçon of lemon up Cy's...

"No caviar for me, thanks", Roger says to the waiter. Then he leans over to Cy and, in a conspiratorial whisper of one gentleman to the other, says: "Never liked it much."

Once everyone is busy with the caviar and salad, he winks at Freddie while Kash surreptitiously helps him sort out his cutlery.

"And where exactly do you live, Mr Taylor?", Freddie's mother asks, trying to include him in the conversation.

Roger shrugs. "Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic. After that, I'm on God's good humor."

"Do you find that appealing? That sort of... rootless existence?"

It's framed as a polite inquiry, but Freddie can feel the disapproyal radiating off her. In her world, nothing is more important than roots.

"Well... it's a big world, and I want to see it all before I go. My folks never got out of the town they were born in. I didn't want to sit around waiting for my life to pass me by like that."

A hard knot forms in the pit of Freddie's stomach. _He_ doesn't want life to pass him by like that. But the older he gets the more it feels like his hours are running away away from him, leaking through his grasping hands like water and never amounting to anything.

"So I try to take life as it comes to me", Roger continues. "To make each day count." His eyes flicker to Freddie for the briefest moment and Freddie schools his features into what he hopes looks like polite interest instead of black despair or green-livered envy.

Mrs Brown raises her glass. "Well said, Mr Taylor."

"Hear, hear", the Colonel chimes in. Cy looks like he he's getting a serious headache.

The sight cheers Freddie up. He holds up his champagne glass. "To making it count."

"How is it you have the means to travel, Mr Taylor", Mrs Candee asks when they've all had a sip of champagne.

"I work", he says lightly. "I probably held more jobs in my short life than all the men at this table combined. Horse-tending, deliveries, hop-picking,... Oh, and sometimes", he looks around with the most charming smile, "sometimes I just get lucky."

"All life is a game of luck", Gracie opines. The man can opine on everything. It's all he ever does.

"A real man makes his own luck, Archie", Cy counters, obviously meaning himself. There's a tension underneath his polished smile. He and Gracie are the undisputed lead animals of the table and Roger is coming dangerously close to upsetting this balance.

But then entrée is served and conversation returns to the safe topic of the unsurpassed excellence of the ship.

The rest of the dinner goes by without major incidents. Cy apparently just wants to get it over with after his plan to embarrass both Freddie and Roger has failed. And Roger spends most of the night talking to Mrs. Brown, who has quickly taken him under her wing. She looks like she might whip out the adoption papers any minute.

After dinner, Freddie sees Kash lean over towards Roger and whisper something in his ear that makes him chuckle. He wants to go over and demand to know what she said to make him smile like that, but realises he can't really do that without looking ridiculous.

Instead, he gets up together with the other men at the table. It's off for brandies and those hateful cigars now, but that does mean that he'll get Roger for himself - well, away from Kash at least - a little while longer. Not that he minds Kash. But she really shouldn't be making eyes at someone so unsuitable for her.

Before he can extend Roger an invitation to the smoking room, Colonel Gracie beats him to it. "Joining us, Taylor? You don't want to stay out here with the women, do you?" He chuckles loudly.

He better not, Freddie thinks to himself.

But Roger shakes his head. "No, thank you. It's time for me to head back."

"Ah, probably best." Gracie doesn't look too saddened at the decline. Some lower-class entertainment might be good sport for a while, but it's always good when they retreat to their assigned place without making a fuss.

While the rest of the group is breaking up, Freddie walks over to Roger. "Well then."

Their acquaintance has reached the natural end of it's lifespan, and think as he might Freddie knows of no treatment to prolong it. His debt has been repaid and there is no reason for them to see each other again. Freddie feels the first tendrils of the old melancholia reaching around his heart at the prospect. He straightens his spine and holds out his hand. "Thank you so much for coming." Then he adds, a little lower. "It's been the most entertaining dinner on this entire journey."

"The pleasure has been all mine." Roger's smile is polite, but there is a twinkle in his eye. Freddie doesn't understand it until Roger takes his hand. A small piece of paper is pressed into his palm. His heart-rate picks up. What on earth...

He shakes Roger's hand and then quickly transfers the note into his pocket. Roger takes his leave and Freddie quickly excuses himself to the bathroom. Once he's sure he's alone, he unfolds the small scrap of paper and reads Roger's note.

 _"_ _Third Class common room, F-deck, 11pm."_ Below that, like an added afterthought: " _Let's make it count."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you've been wondering about Kash's dresses: In my head she's more or less always wearing Rose's dresses in the respective scenes she's in. Here's her evening gown:  
>    
> Freddie and Roger would be wearing white-tie like the man standing up in the second pic: a tailcoat with a dress shirt and a white waistcoat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> Celtic Storm - [Irish Party in Third Class & John Ryan's Polka](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBz_mMeSR7Y)  
> Old Blind Dogs - [The 5£ Flute](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqDtpVZTu_Q)  
> Kudos to nastally for her beta work even as the world is crumbling!

The halls are almost empty when Freddie half-jogs down the staircase a bit faster than decorum permits. He's had a couple of glasses of brandy and even taken a few puffs of cigar, anything to shorten the time until the hands of the clock are close enough to 11. He was the first to leave the smoking room - again - but Freddie isn't known for being a socialite, so apart from some mildly teasing comments he got away without raising suspicion.

Freddie had briefly considered changing into a less conspicuous outfit, but there is nothing in his wardrobe that would allow him to blend in among the third-class populace anyway, so he just stays in the smoking jacket he put on after dinner. He interrogates a string of nonplussed stewards to find a way into the third class. It's more difficult and meandering than he expected. There are few barriers and gates physically separating the three classes, but on several occasions Freddie has to climb two decks up, then traverse to the other side of the ship and take a second flight of stairs back down to reach a spot that can't have been more than 10 feet away from where he started.

Class-wise, however, it's a whole different world.

Soft, sound-swallowing carpets give way to grey linoleum. The hallways are narrower and lit by the glare of bright, utilitarian lamps. But the difference that strikes Freddie the most is the noise. Where he comes from, hallways are used strictly to get from one place to another. People might have hushed conversations along the way, of course, or while waiting for the elevator, but there is no reason to linger. Here however...

Many of the doors are wide open and there is little to separate life inside and outside the cabins. People stand or sit around in corners and on staircases, they are having conversations with passengers in the cabin across the hallway and children are using every available space to run and play. The air is filled with an amalgam of different languages - English, of course, but also French, Turkish and Finnish. A mother nurses her child, scantily covered only by a brightly coloured shawl, while chatting away with a group of women doing needlework. Freddie is almost knocked over by a five year-old boy dashing around a corner in hot pursuit of a scruffy mongrel dog.

Freddie draws furtive glances, but mostly people ignore him, stepping aside to make way without openly acknowledging his presence. They have probably made the experience that attention from the likes of him doesn't bode well.

At some point, Freddie can discern the right direction by the level of the noise and the density of the crowd alone. There's a doorway clogged with people at the end of the hall. Freddie has to squeeze himself through the throng to get inside what must be the common room.

It's large and sparsely furnished with tables and benches and a raised wooden platform in the middle. Dancers are filling up every free square inch. A makeshift band with drums, bagpipe, flute and fiddle are cranking out upbeat tunes and the smoke of a hundred cheap cigarettes is hanging in the air. It smells of sweat and spilled ale, and the noise and the sheer presence of this mass of people feels overwhelming. Freddie wonders how he is ever going find Roger in this pandemonium.

One song ends and immediately the band launches into the next one, the beginning drowned out by the cheers and claps of the crowd. Freddie weaves his way through the moving mass of people until he's almost directly in front of the band.

It's only then that he finally sees Roger.

He's perched on a stool, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a battered flat cap on his head, beating the drum and tapping his foot in time with the beat. He's changed back into his usual clothes - brown woolen trousers and a worn linen shirt gaping open at his neck. His carefully combed hair has come loose, dark blond strands clinging to his cheek in the humid air. Sweat is pooling in the hollow at the base of his neck.

Then Roger looks up and sees him and - without breaking the rhythm - winks at him. It catches Freddie off guard and he waves back excitedly before he can catch himself.

The band finishes the song to the applause of the bystanders. Roger hands of the bodhran to a boy who can't be a day above fifteen and claps the fiddler, a tall, lanky man with a look of intense concentration on his face, on the back as he skips towards Freddie. He picks up two beers from a nearby table and weaves his way through the crowd without spilling a drop.

"Cheers", he says as he presses one of the glasses into Freddie's hand. The ale is warm and slightly stale and Freddie is pretty sure that Roger basically just nicked the drinks from their rightful owners, but it's still a relief in the hot, sticky air. "Glad you could make it." Roger swipes his hair from his forehead. The blond strands fall back immediately.

"I didn't know you were part of the band."

"What band?"

Freddie gestures. " _That_ band. The one you just played in."

"Oh, that's not really a band, just..." He waves a hand through the air. "It's all very slapdash." But he looks pleased.

"But you're..." They're interrupted by a little girl tugging at Roger's jacket. She has curly black hair and reminds Freddie of the girl at the railing that he'd seen in Roger's sketchbook. She must be about four or five years old.

"Cora!" Roger sweeps her up and sets her on his hip. "Doing alright? Freddie, this is my good friend Cora Cartmell." He turns around and gestures towards the band. "See the piper? That's her dad."

The girl whispers something into his ear and soon enough, Roger puts her down again and takes her hand. "Freddie, would you excuse us for a moment. The lady wishes to dance." The girl is already tugging Roger in the direction of the other dancers, so all Freddie can do is nod, although he doesn't want Roger to leave again when they've barely had time to exchange a few words.

He settles back against a metal support beam that reaches from the floor to the ceiling and watches the dancers go by. Some of them are dancing in a kind of formation, but many others seem to be making it up as they go along. There is a lot of clapping and jumping and stomping involved. It's exuberant and energetic. Freddie only sees glimpses of Roger as space between the dancers opens up and closes again, but he looks like he's genuinely enjoying himself, twirling the girl this way and that.

They aren't even the strangest couple on the floor: There seems to be a lack of available gentlemen, as several ladies form couples on their own. One of them even donned workman's trousers and a flat cap. Near the centre of the dance-floor there is a group of boisterous young men, dancing with or rather _against_ one another, competing who can do the quickest steps and swing the other so fast he would lose his footing. And a bit further to the left a portly man with a turban is being taught the steps to the jig from a stern-looking elderly woman, while his wife and children are shrieking with laughter at his attempts.

Freddie's feet are itching to join in, but he stays in place, merely allowing himself to tap his toes to the ground. He's a good-enough ballroom dancer, but when left to his own devices, without the corset of standard dance steps and a well-bred lady in his arms, he tends to lose himself and look very foolish.

After two songs, Roger and the girl come to a halt at the edge of the dance floor. Cora says something and then they both look in Freddie's direction. After some serious discussion, Roger walks up to Freddie, while the girl remains a few steps away, twisting the hem of her dress in her hands. "She says she wants to dance with a 'real prince' now."

"You told her I'm a prince?"

"You're close enough. For her there are kings and princes on one side and", he indicates the overcrowded room, "us on the other." He grabs Freddie's upper arm and pulls him forward with surprising strength. "Now go on. You wouldn't want to offend a lady now, would you?"

"I'd never." Freddie hands Roger the remainder of his beer and walks towards the little girl. After a few steps he hesitates and turns back around towards Roger, who has taken up his position against the beam. He looks infinitely amused as he makes a little shooing motion.

Freddie crouches down in front of the girls and takes her hand. "Miss Cora", he says with as much gravitas as he can muster, "May I have the honor of this next dance with you?" She still doesn't look up at him, but nods vigorously and soon she is leading him onto the dance floor, making him twirl her around so fast it's hard to believe she can still tell head from heel. Halfway through the first song he is suffocating in his evening garb, so he loosens his bow-tie and takes off his smoking jacket, tossing it to Roger for safe-keeping. Dress shirt sleeves aren't made for rolling up, but he makes an attempt anyway.

The music is fast and pounding, going straight to his feet. Freddie has no idea what he's doing here, or what the steps to that dance are, but he is already having more fun that he's had during the last ten so-called parties he's attended combined. It's a good thing he has got Cora to take care of because otherwise he might have lost himself in it. He swings her around, lifts her up in the air (which makes her screech ear piercingly with delight) and shields her from the more boisterous dancers at the same time.

After three songs, Freddie is sweating through his layers of dress and requests a break, pleading old age. Cora graciously allows him to hand her off to her dad, while she mumbles something about him not being " _that_ old".

Freddie heads back over to Roger, who is regarding him with a satisfied expression. Without a word, he hands him another ale. Freddie leans next to him against the column and tries to catch his breath.

"Tired already?" Roger cocks his head to the side so his breath gusts against Freddie's cheek, sending a maddening tingle all through his right side. He smells of sweat and wool, cheap cigarettes and brilliantine. Roger raises an eyebrow. "And the night has only just begun."

Freddie allows himself a moment in that haze that's making him weak and bold at the same time. He turns his head towards Roger, expecting it, but still startled by the proximity of his clear blue eyes. Freddie juts his chin out a little, both as a challenge and because it makes his mouth look a bit less ridiculous. "What's next, then?"

Roger pushes himself off from the column and turns so he faces Freddie. "Come on", he says, "let's get some more drinks."

After a detour to the bar, Roger leads him to a long table with benches on either side. It's crowded with men chatting loudly, their English either broken or riddled with thick accents from Cockney to Irish. There really isn't any space for them, but then one of the Irishmen looks up at him and elbows his neighbour so hard in the ribs the man chokes on his beer. "Scoot over, Digs. Can't have your lordship standing there like a waiter."

"Shut it, you two." Roger sits down on the bench and somehow, space materializes next to him, just big enough for Freddie to squeeze into. "Come on."

Their thighs and shoulders press into each other. Freddie feels disgusting, sweaty as a he is, and tries to make himself as small as possible, but it doesn't really help. The man on the other side of him is straddling the bench with his back to Freddie and uses him as a welcome back rest. The smell, the closeness, it's crowding him, making it difficult to breathe. No, not difficult, just so noticable. He feels every rise and fall of his ribcage, every expansion pressing him closer into Roger.

Freddie takes a big gulp of his ale.

The surly blond man opposite him looks up from his game of cards, his eyes lingering on Freddie's neatly trimmed hair, his soft hands, his starched collar. "Så han dricker öl", he says, pulling down the corners of his mouth as if he's impressed. Is that Dutch? Or Swedish perhaps?

The man's eyes wander back to the glass of beer so Freddie has some idea what he's on about. Of course Freddie drinks ale. Why wouldn't he?

"Don't mind him", Roger mutters under his breath, but Freddie has already taken up his glass again. He empties it in one long pull, never taking his eyes off the Swede. He raises it in a mock toast and puts it down pointedly among the hollers and wolf whistles of the other men at the table.

The Swede nods slowly, then turns around and yells something fast and incomprehensible. Moments later, a burly redhead with an awe-inspiring beard lumbers towards them. Freddie is suddenly quite aware that he has exactly one friend in this room of strangers. His breath quickens and the hair at the back of his neck stands on end.

The bearded man comes to a stop in front of the table, directly opposite Freddie and fixes him with a calculating glare. The chatter around them dies down. He says something Freddie doesn't understand, but it sounds like a question. Freddie feels Roger's hand close around his wrist.

"Freddie, what are you doing", Roger hisses.

Freddie's so wound up that even Roger touching him can't distract him. He just holds the glare of the red-headed man and nods.

The man swings his arm. Roger curses obscenely while Freddie raises his hands and jumps up from his seat, ready to go down fighting.

Something is plunked down hard on the wooden table. Next to him, Roger gives a startled laugh. Freddie blinks down.

An unmarked quart bottle, filled to brim with a clear substance that looks like but clearly isn't water.

The card player grins at him and slides a small glass in his direction.

* * *

##### 1am

"Jus' toffs pretending to be real men, is that so?" Freddie leans forward on his forearms, staring Bill down.

For about the fourth time tonight, Roger mentally prepares himself for a fight.

Miraculously, Freddie has survived the drink-off with the two Swedes. Okay, maybe not so miraculously. Maybe Roger's poker-practised hands swapping out every other of whatever the hell it was they were drinking for water had something to do with it. After the 8th round even Olaf the woodcutter from Dalarna had been forced to admit to Freddie's drinking bona-fides. Still, he did get a couple of glasses in him and the win seems to have made him cocky.

It's not what Roger expected when he invited him down here. He expected having to shield him from some of the rougher elements in the room, but not that Freddie would outright seek them out and pick up challenges left and right. Because right now he's getting into a heated discussion about Queensberry-rule boxing with Bill the coal trimmer. The one with all the tattoos on his arms and a scar down his neck.

"That's righ'." Bill grins widely.

Before Roger can do anything about it, Freddie's gotten up from his chair, drawing some 'ooohs' and 'aaahs' from the men around them. They smell a fight coming.

Bloody hell. Roger has absolutely no intention to explain to bloody Wadia - or worse, to Freddie's mum - how Freddie wound up in the sick bay with half his teeth missing. He grabs a fold of Freddie's shirt and tugs. "Sit down, will ya?"

But Freddie slaps his hand away and keeps glaring at Bill. Bill, who looks like he might be doing bare knuckle fighting and has at least 60 pounds on Freddie.

Dammit. This is going to end with Roger getting his face bashed in trying to cover for Freddie, isn't it? Of course it is. And it's all his own damn fault for bringing him here. What had he been thinking?

"Right then", Freddie says. "Wanna give it a go?"

"My pleasure", Bill says and gets up too. The table creaks as he pushes himself up with his hands. Is Roger imagining it or is Freddie getting smaller the taller the other man stands?

"Look, chaps, how about I get us all another round of drinks, eh?" Roger stands up too and makes his voice as jovial as it gets. "My treat."

Freddie looks at him, relief in his eyes. "Er, well. I wouldn't mind another drink actually..."

"Oh, we'll have drinks, don't worry my bonnie", Bill says. "Loser foots the bill."

A roar goes up around the table.

"Hey, what's happening", a voice by Roger's ear asks. Roger turns to see that Brian has taken a break from playing.

"That nutter just challenged the biggest man in the room to a fight." Roger nods towards Freddie.

Brian gapes at him. "What, your gentleman friend? He looks like he's 120 pounds soaking wet."

Roger rolls his eyes. "Apparently he did some boxing at his poncy school."

Brian huffs out a breath. "Oh my."

"Don't stand there going 'oh my'! Think how we can get him out of there!" If anyone can think of something, it's Brian.

While they were talking, Freddie and Bill have stepped away from the table into a circular free space that has magically cleared up as if guided by an invisible hand. It's a ridiculous sight. Freddie, lithe and even shorter than Roger in his dress shirt and shiny black shoes, versus that veritable bull of a man. It's David against Goliath, except this isn't the Holy Land and God probably can't even see 10 decks into the belly of a ship, much less care what's going on there.

"Come up with anything yet", Roger asks as the two begin sizing each other up.

Brian just shrugs and shakes his head. Then he goes still. "Maybe..."

"What? _What?_ "

Now is not the time for dramatic pauses.

"Hey", Brian shouts "Give him an opponent his own size at least, for heaven's sake."

Bill looks over, a bit startled. He hesitates and his confident grin freezes.

Alright, yes, they can work with that. Not a perfect solution but better than the alternative. "Yeah, not a good look, taking it out on people half your size", Roger yells, pressing home their advantage. They get some nods and a low, approving mumble from the bystanders.

"Might be a tough call", Bill drawls and looks around. "Don't think we've got any that scrawny."

"Oi, what about your wife, Jim", someone yells to the general amusement of the crowd.

"I seen Jim's wife", someone else shoots back. "Looks like she can bend fire irons with her bare hands."

"Shut it or I'll bend your neck, yer prick." Ah, that must be Jim.

Just when it looks like another, altogether more even-sided fight is going to break out, a young man, barely more than a boy, gets up from another table. He takes a last drag of his of his ale, then places it carefully on the table. "I'll do it", he says.

Shouts erupt from the crowd. "Yeah, Deacon" and "Come on, teach him a lesson." He must also be a member of the crew, but doesn't have Bill's coal-blackened hands. Perhaps he's a seaman or an engineer? The man's colleagues are cheering, but directly behind Freddie a number of people boo and hiss. This is rapidly turning into crew versus passengers. Which is still better than steerage versus first class, because that would be all against Freddie. But still.

The man, Deacon, steps forward and shrugs out of his flannel shirt, leaving him in a white henley. He's quite a bit taller than Freddie, but not much heavier at least. Still, what mass he does have on him his pure muscle and sinew, hardened by long days of hard work. "I'm not going to foot the bill if your pretty suit gets ripped", he says.

"Likewise", Freddie says.

Someone has scrounged up bandages for the fighters and Roger jumps at the chance to wrap them around Freddie's hands.

"You don't have to do this", he whispers as he wraps the stained cotton ties around his knuckles and wrists. His hands are large, but they look so delicate. "Play it off as a joke, pay for a round of drinks, and it'll be fine."

"And prove them right? That I'm all words, backing down as soon as things get tough?"

"For heaven's sake, that Deacon bloke might be a bare-knuckle fighting champion for all you know. This is insane!"

"I know what I'm doing, Roger", Freddie says, although he obviously doesn't.

"Alright. Look." Roger tamps down the urge to just drag him out of there and gets started on the second hand instead. "If things get bad, promise me you'll give in."

"It won't get-"

" _Promise me_." Good Lord, has this man ever even seen a fight like this? What two men with few rules and no gloves can do to each other? Teeth and blood all over the place, ears being ripped off and noses smashed into pulp? For someone who told Roger only this afternoon that he doesn't intend to off himself, Freddie seems quite keen on self-destruction. "Or I'll drag you out by the scruff of your neck, so help me God."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Watch me." He's finished wrapping the bandages and locks eyes with Freddie, daring him to look away first.

"Can I go then?" Deacon looks half-amused, half-annoyed at being completely ignored those last minutes. "You two just gonna have a go at each other or what?"

Freddie takes off his collar and cuffs and hands them to Roger. Then he downs another shot of the Swedish water and slams the empty glass on the table, playing it up a bit.

Roger shoots Brian one last pleading look, but Brian just shrugs helplessly. Looks they've run out of ideas.

Freddie raises his bandaged hands and takes a step towards Deacon. "Come on, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to get an impression of the scenery: Part of the [third class party scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kN7U_hdu8w) can be found on youtube
> 
> The [deckplans](https://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/titanic-deckplans/) of the ship are also available online - they give a good impression of the labyrinthine layout. 1st, 2nd and 3rd class areas as well as crew areas can be found on the same decks.
> 
> Here's a picture of Cora. She's a fictional character from the movie, not an actual passenger:  
>   
> And finally, here's the closest pic I could find of Deacy. He's a bit older in the fic, so imagine him with a bit less of a baby-face:  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Soundtrack** :  
> Choonz - [Lads of Laois / The Big Reel of Ballinacally / Black Pat's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvkWyUBnEts)  
> The Bothy Band - [The Kesh Jig / Give Us a Drink Of Water / The Famous Ballymote](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8IRWVKhDzxA&list=PLjHTKsnl473CG93_Rxo0vuKtI2n6i3E1M&index=18)  
> Queen - [You Take My Breath Away (Instrumental)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84jnBcDeCqs)
> 
> As always, thanks go to my lovely beta [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally)! Also, special thanks to [Plainxte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainxte/pseuds/Plainxte) for looking over the music bits!

The air is thick enough to cut with a knife as the two fighters start circling each other.

Freddie is light on his feet, keeping his distance and holding himself upright, graceful like a dancer. Deacon doesn't move as much, but his slightly crouched stance and watchful eyes tell Roger all he needs to know. That guy is an experienced boxer.

"Fuck", he mutters under his breath. Not that he honestly expected the crew to put up a rookie. He bites his lips nervously, trying (and failing) to come up with a reason to be optimistic.

The crowd starts to jeer and yell, getting restless at the lack of action. Deacon isn't impressed by that, but Freddie darts forwards for the first series of jabs. They're swift and precise, but Deacon has no problem blocking them.

"Come on", Roger mumbles. "Don't let them goad you, they want you to attack."

Next to him, Brian mumbles his agreement and puts a comforting hand on Roger's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

A glass smashes somewhere and Freddie is distracted just for the fraction of a second it takes Deacon to aim a punch to the right side of his face. It doesn't seem to hit hard, but Freddie stumbles back and raises his hands defensively while Deacon starts after him. All Roger wants to do is throw himself between the two and get Freddie out of there (and also knock Deacon out cold, although that's a tall order for him. In a fair fight at least). But all he can do is look on as a combination of blows rains down on Freddie.

But Deacon is getting cocky. He's throwing one punch after the other, but Freddie's defense is nimble enough that they don't do much damage. And so it's only a question of time until Freddie comes out of a break to land a perfectly timed jab. His opponent manages to deflect it at the last second so it glances off his temple rather than hit him squarely on the nose.

Roger whoops and Brian claps his back, grinning widely at him. Freddie's putting up a good fight.

Deacon looks rattled for a second. Then he just looks angry.

The difference is palpable. It's not that either of them have been pulling their punches before, but now every trace of playfulness is gone. Deacon boxes with ruthless efficiency, forcing Freddie to turn and weave and retreat. Sweat is already running down Freddie's face and he's panting audibly. He's not out of shape, but Deacon is _fit_. Freddie won't be able to outpace him. He certainly won't be able to outpunch him either.

Maybe the best outcome Roger can hope for is a quick, clean knockout.

Freddie stumbles back from a lethal one-two combo and crashes into a wall of people, which immediately pushes him forward into the ring again. Before he's really regained his footing, Deacon is there and Freddie's head snaps back from the impact.

"Fuck!" Roger presses his knuckles to his lips. This is getting unbearable to watch.

Freddie hunches over, a hand pressed to his face. Blood is dripping to the floor from between his fingers.

"Enough?" Deacon's grin is triumphant as he's being cheered by his mates. He's drawn first blood and he knows as well as everyone else in the room that he'll win this fight. The only question is how and how fast.

But Freddie wipes off the blood with his sleeve and spits out a mouthful of blood. Roger only hopes there's not a tooth in there.

Then Freddie raises his fists again, the stubborn bastard.

"Your friend's an idiot", Brian observes.

Roger glares at him but can't honestly disagree, because now Deacon is coming at Freddie with everything he's got.

Freddie's defending well but he's getting tired and it shows. Roger is itching for an excuse to get in there and put a stop to it, but if Freddie insists on being brave, there's little he can do. This is about honour, and apparently Freddie will rather go down with his head held high than retreat and lose his dignity. Roger gets it, he does, but... this is painful to watch. And on a completely different note, he also wonders if Cy is the type to order his henchman to throw Roger off the ship with his feet tied to a lead pipe if his brother-in-law comes to harm. He probably is.

Freddie's reeling from a couple of blows to his stomach, but still doggedly tries to get his own punches in, even if it means opening himself up. He must know he's going down, so all he can hope for is to win the respect of the crowd.

Deacon knows he's got him and patiently sets him up for the knock-out blow with strategic jabs to his stomach and chest to get Freddie to lower his guard. Freddie's in a full crouch now, arms close to his body, hands protecting his head.

But he's still attacking whenever Deacon opens up. He's just landed a good one to the ribs, when several things happen at once.

Freddie pulls back his left to set up a punch.

"No!" A screech pierces through the curtain of voices and a small red-and-black shadow cannons into Deacon at hip height.

Deacon looks down.

Freddie's left hook hits him in the right side, just below his ribcage with full force.

Deacon crumples to the ground without another sound.

"Leave him alone", Cora screams at the figure writhing on the floor in agony.

Freddie stares at the scene with wide eyes. When he realises what has happened, he immediately sprints over to Deacon. "I am so sorry", he says, crouching down, a hand on the man's shoulder. "That was not at all..." He's distracted by the crying girl. "It's alright, Cora, I'm alright."

"He hurt you!" Cora is beside herself. And to be honest, Freddie does look a fright with his blood streaked face.

As Roger runs over to them, he's giddy with relief.

It's both very dramatic and incredibly funny. The fight is well and truly over and Freddie's still alive and that alone is reason enough to celebrate. He wants to hug Freddie and kick him for being a stupid idiot, but he can't very well do that. Also, there's still a crying little girl to take care of, so he lifts Cora away from the crowd of people clustering around the two fighters and starts looking for her family. He tries to explain the concept of boxing to her, but she's just repeating her main points, which are 1. Freddie is bleeding and 2. the bad man tried to hurt Freddie, and honestly, Roger couldn't be happier for her intervention so he gives up quickly.

"Listen", he says, sitting her down on a bench. "What you did was really stupid and also really brave. Don't do that again." He looks around, desperate to get back to Freddie. "Also, where is your daddy?"

Mr Cartmell is already hurrying over, repeating the main points of Roger's argument as he picks her up and presses her to his chest.

Back at the scene of the fight, Deacon's sitting up and seems to be breathing normally again. He looks slightly sheepish but his mates keep slapping his back and telling him he'd have won fair and square. Brian has brought him a glass of water and the two are chatting quietly about... Roger has no idea. And he doesn't care. 

Officially, Freddie has been declared the winner, but he gallantly refuses to accept it and also insists on buying a round of beer for everyone. A young woman has offered her handkerchief so he has managed to wipe most of the blood off his face. It's the best possible outcome of this whole mess, and Roger allows himself a breath of relief, until Freddie gets so carried away by his own sportsmanship that he starts floating the idea of a repeat under fair rules. 

Enough is enough. Roger cuts him off by putting a cigarette between his lips, then takes him firmly by the arm and leads him off for a victory drink.

"Are you alright", he asks as he sits Freddie down a bit further away from everyone else. There's a bruise forming on his cheek, but now that most of the blood has come off, Roger can't see any major damage to his nose or lips.

Freddie nods and grins widely. "Oh I feel marvellous, darling", he says, taking the cigarette between his fingers and swirling his hand through the air. Then he freezes and flushes bright red. "I mean..." 

Roger just shakes his head. "Bloody toffs", he sighs and leans over to light Freddie's cigarette. "That was the stupidest I've ever seen anyone do in my life", he says.

"Haven't done this in ages", Freddie laughs, then winces and presses a hand to his ribs. "And I'm going to feel it for a week. This too." He rotates his shoulder with a pained grimace, then takes a deep drag of his cigarette and coughs.

"You must be bored out of your skull to consider this entertainment." Roger looks at him for a moment through the curling smoke of the cigarette. "What the hell are they doing to you up there?"

"Well." Freddie rolls the cigarette back and forth between his thumb and forefinger as he searches for an answer. The knuckles are reddened from the fight and Roger has the urge to smooth over them with his thumb. It looks so wrong, those markings of violence on his elegant, long-fingered hands. His gaze wanders up over narrow wrists to sinewy forearms revealed by rolled-up sleeves. They're very distracting. Not that Roger minds being distracted. "You've seen what it's like." Roger's eyes snap back to Freddie's face. "And dinner today has been a ball compared to the other nights. Because of you."

Freddie brings the fag to his mouth and Roger finds himself distracted again by the way his sultry lips curl around the tip of the cigarette. He never thought another man smoking to be interesting, much less hypnotic.

He is startled out of his reverie by a change in the air around them. Conversations become hushed as strains of music drift through the room. At the same time, a pounding, driving rhythm composed of hundreds of feet tapping and moving in time rumbles through the room. He looks over to where the music is coming from and sees that the boy on the bodhran has set up a pulsing rhythm and a young woman picked up the tin whistle, playing a tune that Roger can't name but has heard a hundred times. And then there's Brian, of course, and next to him... next to him that Deacon bloke, guitar in hand, climbing onto the makeshift stage and falling in with the other players.

Now that's just typical. Brian barely manages to say hello when he sees a girl he likes, but of course he'd have no problem striking up with someone who tried to beat up Roger's friend not ten minutes before.

Thing is, they're good. They bridge the gap between the low pattern of the drum and the high, flittering melody of the whistle, making the music sound dense and dynamic. It goes straight into Roger's feet and he can see Freddie nodding in time along with it, eyes transfixed.

People around them start moving - a line of dancers has spilled over the limits of the dance floor and is working its way through the room like an unstoppable wave. Next to him, a handsome Italian man jumps up to join in and the Norwegian girl he's been trying to chat up all night is trailing behind him.

Suddenly, Roger can't keep sitting still for a second longer. "Come on." He gets up and holds out his hand. Freddie's got a curious expression on his face, but lets himself be pulled out of his chair. He looks down at their joined hands when Roger doesn't let go. "What..."

Before Freddie can finish the question, Roger has latched onto the hand of the last in a long line of dancers that is weaving its way across the room in a meandering, flailing line, and is pulling Freddie along.

It isn't even really dancing, it's more like a skipping, stomping march fuelled by laughter and ale, conducted in the breathtaking tempo set by the music. Within seconds, other people join in behind them, a pretty young woman taking Freddie's hand without a second thought.

They wheel through the room, Freddie's sweaty palm firmly in his, skipping along to the rhythm, laughing and singing along to the tune.

After a few minutes, the line begins to break apart under the strain of its own length and smaller groups of people continue dancing in sets or couples. Without losing his rhythm, Roger lifts their still connected hands and brings them to shoulder height. Then he walks a circle around Freddie, making him turn on the spot. After four steps he changes hands and direction.

Freddie tries to take his hand back, an uncertain smile on his lips. "What is this?"

Roger lifts their hands and twirls underneath the arch of their arms. "What's is look like?"

"Are we dancing?"

"Glad you caught up." They've only been doing that for the last five minutes or so.

Freddie tries to tug his hand away, his expression growing serious. "I really don't think we should."

Roger stills and comes to stand right in front of Freddie. "Look around you", he says quietly. "Do you really think it matters?"

It's well after two in the morning already and dancing has become the standard mode of transport. The whole room is a pulsating, seething mass of people. On an elevated platform a set of eight are dancing in formation, and only two of the couples are mixed sex.

After his gaze has swept over the crowd, Freddie takes a deep breath and nods, biting his lower lip with his teeth. He looks adorable. Then he holds out his hands to his sides and raises his eyebrows. "I have no idea what I'm doing", he says.

"Don't be daft", Roger grumbles and puts both his hands on Freddie's slim waist. He can feel Freddie's breath hitching under his hands and a surge of excitement rolls through him. He tightens the grip of his fingers and thrills at the sight of Freddie's pulse jumping in his neck, barely tamping down the sudden urge to lick along it. There _are_ limits. But, oh, the possibilities...

With a grin and a brief count-in, he leads them into a fast polka step.

* * *

Freddie's head is swirling. _He_ is swirling, and the room and Roger and the very air around them, too. The band is playing a simple tune, endless variations of it, each one imperceptibly faster than the last. Freddie's a good dancer, but he doesn't feel like he's dancing at all, he's swept along in a whirlwind that is music and noise and rhythm and a pair of hands touching him and setting him alight.

It's all Freddie can do to follow Roger's mad rhythm, trusting the other man to steer them clear of tables, supporting beams and other dancers. His blond hair is darkened with sweat, his mouth in constant motion as he's biting, licking his lips, singing along, breaking into mischievous grins. Freddie just can't look away.

After the next turn, Roger takes one hand away from his waist and Freddie has already become so used to their weight that he mourns their absence. But then he feels his right arm being lifted by the wrist and quick fingers brush over the palm of his hand in a feathery touch that makes him fear for his sanity. Roger takes his hand in a proper dance hold while his other arm slides around Freddie's body until it sits low on his back, bringing them closer together, so close that they're breathing the same air and Freddie doesn't know where to look, because he cannot possibly look away from those blue eyes or that tantalising mouth or the open V of his shirt that reveals just the hint of collar-bone, but he can't keep looking either, because he can't help wonder how that golden skin would feel under his lips, how the sweat that gathers at the base of his throat would taste, how…

Freddie looks up to find Roger observing him with a knowing grin and shame and arousal wash through him. His steps falter. Just then, the music ends in a mad rush and before Freddie knows what's happening, his world is tilting as Roger tips him backward, holding his weight with ease.

Freddie gapes at him. "You..."

Roger pauses for a second, grinning down at him, before he pulls him back upright. "Me."

Freddie squares his shoulders, trying to regain his composure. He clears his throat, although he has no idea what to say next.

Roger is still holding him close. "Freddie." The way he says that name echoes through him like thunder. "Let it go. Just for tonight."

The fight goes out of him. He is so, _so_ tired of watching his every move all the time, so tired of keeping up appearances. And right now he'd give up all the fortunes in the world to keep those hands, those eyes on him just a minute longer.

The band strikes up a new tune, lighter than the last one, a bit lilting.

"Let's get something to drink", Roger says. "And then I'll teach you a proper hornpipe."

~~~

Freddie's fingers stroke the keys of the piano as he hums along to the melody, the words forming in his mind but not yet ready to be sung. It's been on his mind forever, dull little bits and pieces, but he never had an idea what to do with it, what it was about, but now...

He keeps repeating the phrase with his right hand, only taking his left away from the keys long enough to write down the notes on the piece of paper next to him. It's been ages since he's last been at the piano like that, just lettin the words, the music stream through him, transforming amorphous emotion into chords and melodies.

Again and again, his mind revisits how they danced into the night. Oh god, the memory alone is enough to wreck him. Those brazen hands finding their way so naturally to his sides, his back, his hands. Roger's easy smile, as if he had no idea how devastating that contact was.

The chords rise and brighten from their diminished, minor state, floating in the temporary brightness of E♭-major.

Freddie lets his head fall to the side, feeling the ghost of Roger's breath on his neck. He closes his eyes and there are those deep blue eyes blinking down on him as he's being dipped back, held up only by one strong arm under his back. He stretches his hand as he plays the arpeggio and feels the dual sensation of bruised knuckles and the maddening tingle of work-roughened fingers on his palm.

Freddie's breath hitches, everything being too heavy and too light at the same time, his body unbearably hot. His chest and his throat feel tight and constricted, but it's the sweetest sensation, like being caught in suspension just before the fall. He floats in that feeling until the tingling pressure in his lungs builds up so much it feels he’s going to burst.

Finally his fingers still and he exhales on a shivery, neverending sigh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freddie downs John with a liver shot, which is just excruciating. Apart from the pain, it can lead to breahlessness, temporary paralysis and loss of consciousness. It happened to a friend of mine as an accident during sparring and he thought about giving up boxing afterwards because he was afraid it might happen again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
>  **Queen** \- [White Queen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nx_SVPiXnWM)
> 
> Thanks to my lovely betas, [emma_and_orlando](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/pseuds/emma_and_orlando) and [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally), who made this chapter so much better!
> 
> There is going to be some Gujarati in this chapter - click on or hover over the text for a translation and make sure you **don't** hide the creator's style. It's all google translate and a wikitravel phrasebook I'm afraid - if there are any Gujarati speakers among my readers, please let me know if you spot any mistakes!
> 
> ETA: Thanks ever so much to @crispycreationkitten on tumblr for her pointers on Gujarati endearments!

####  **Saturday 13th April**

#####  **11 am, First Class Parlour Suite, C-Deck**

Orange juice. 

Freddie grimaces as his stomach gives a sickening lurch and pushes the glass away. Not what he can take in right now. 

He stretches his back, wincing as all the exertions of last night make themselves known. He seems to have pulled a muscle somewhere around his left shoulder blade and his calves are sore from all the dancing. And the impromptu _en pointe_ demonstration. Despite the pain, he smiles faintly at the bodily reminder of last night.

Now where are those kippers?

He's just thinking about progressing to some toast when there's a knock on the door. Probably the steward again, to bring him some more orange juice. He pulls his dressing gown a little tighter around himself. "Come in."

It's his mother who walks in through the door instead. 

* * *

#####  **Third-Class Common Room**

"...and then he launched into this whole lecture about this Russian ballet dancer - Ninisky or something - and his bloody _en pointe_ dancing to, you know, to Tommy and Digs and Billy and so on. Can you imagine their faces?" Roger looks at Brian, waiting to get a disbelieving chuckle from him, but it's like he's not even there. "Brian?"

"Hm? Oh, sorry." Brian shakes himself out of his reverie and trains his eyes on Roger.

"Have you heard a single word I was saying?"

"Of course.” Brian frowns in concentration. “Ballet dancing. How curious."

Roger rolls his eyes. Brian and his woolgathering… "Anyway, they started making merry over him and mocking his French words and he gets that look in his eyes, you know, and I'm thinking we’re in for another bloody boxing match but instead..." He trails off when he notices he might as well be talking to a brick wall. He thinks about saying something crude to startle Brian out of it, but thinks better of it. His friend can get so tetchy when he's in _A Mood_.

He looks at the notebook, full of scribbles, that Brian has open in front of him. 

"Writing me a love letter?"

Now that gets Brian's attention. "You are aware that not every single one of my thoughts revolves around you, aren't you?"

Roger frowns, offended. "How do you mean?"

Brian rolls his eyes at him and takes up his pencil, hastily scribbling something down. 

"So what _are_ you doing?"

Brian pauses, his expression one of barely contained annoyance. "I'm trying", he grumbles, "to write down an idea for a song I had last night."

"So what have you got?" Roger snatches up Brian's notebook over his protests. He pretends he hates it when Roger does that, but he's always keen to hear his opinion. As long as it's positive, that is.

_Needing - unheard_

_Pleading -_ _~~no~~ __~~one~~ __no word_

_So sad my eyes_

_She cannot see_

Oh Brian, so brilliant but always so melancholy. He pushes the notebook back towards his friend. "Chrissie again?"

Brian shakes his head. "No more songs about Chrissie", he says with a small smile. "I promised you, didn't I?"

As he remembers it, Roger had threatened to cut the strings on his fiddle if he had to endure one more song about the beauty and cruelty of his former fiancée. But it’s close enough. "You did. So who is she then, the one who's spurning you now?"

"Do you have to take everything so literal? It's more of an… an abstract sort of feeling, you know."

"Uh-huh." Roger let's his eyes wander through the room, looking for a suitable candidate. It's filling up for dinner, which after last night's party doubles as breakfast for many. His gaze falls on a family sitting a few tables away: a middle aged couple and a young woman who looks vaguely familiar. She is pretty but not remarkable, or so Roger thinks, a bit mousy in her plain buttoned up blouse and carefully braided hair. Nothing to make her stand out from any of the other girls in the room, really.

Then her eyes flicker up from the book she's reading and she turns her head to listen to something her mother said. Just then Roger recognises that face. It’s the whistle player from last night, the one who played with Brian and that Deacon bloke.

'A more abstract sort of feeling', of course.

Roger keeps silent. He just looks at Brian with a knowing grin on his face.

"What?" Brian has the gall to pretend he doesn't know what Roger's on about.

"So what's her name then?"

"Who?" Brian adds another line to his lyrics, then strikes it out again. Bet you he's just doing that so he doesn't have to answer Roger.

"Come on, you're only making it harder for yourself." He puts his elbows on the table and leans his chin on his hands. "Did sparks fly over _Banks of Sweet Primroses_?"

Brian stares at him. Roger raises his eyebrows and nods towards the girl. Brian shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. "Not everyone tries to pick up any young woman they lay their eyes on, Rog."

"Oh come on! You can tell me."

"Roger, there is nothing to tell." Then he adds after a short pause. "And even if there were I surely wouldn't be telling you."

Aha! "I'm your best friend!"

"You're also a bloody nuisance."

"But I could help!"

"Roger." He's got Brian's full attention now. "For all that is good and holy in this world, please have mercy and spare me your help."

"But..."

"So what happened after the guys started mocking Freddie's enthusiasm for Russian ballet?" Brian crosses his arms and looks at him pointedly.

Roger mirrors his position. "Oh, so you want me to tell you things but not the other way round."

"You _wanted_ to tell me this story, you... you know what, forget it." Brian gets up. "I'm gonna find myself a quiet place where I can write in peace."

"Alright.” If he wants to be like that, fine. God, he's always so uptight when it comes to girls. And it's not like Roger doesn't understand how badly he's been hurt, but still. “Oh, Brian?" 

“Yes?” Brian stops and turns to look at him. 

“‘One word’ is better, I think. For the song.”

“Oh.” Brian looks down at the notes. “Right. Thank you.” He makes a note, looking a bit mollified. “See you round for tea then?”

“Sure. See you.” Roger watches him go. Well, he's missing out on a damn good story. Freddie challenging a couple of firemen to a toe-standing contest had been hilarious. And not a little impressive. Roger had a go at it himself. He had to be held up by a man on either side and even then it had been bloody painful. But Freddie had just stood there, rising higher and higher, arms above his head, until he was on the very points of his toes. His feet, his back, his neck were all arched in perfect poise. And then he'd lowered himself back down, downed Roger's ale and bummed a fag from Billy like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Watching Freddie loosen up and relax into himself had been a miracle to behold, a miracle Roger wants to witness again, and soon. They'd bidden each other farewell in high spirits the night before, but they hadn't made plans for today. At the time, it had felt like a matter of course that they'd see each other again. It's only now that Roger has realised how quickly the doors to the first class would close again to the likes of him.

Not that he's going to be deterred by some bloody doors.

#####  **1.30pm**

The uniform jacket is a little wide around the shoulders, but the black trousers are just the right length. He dabs his fingertips in Brian's macassar oil and combs his hair back until it lies straight and slick against his skull, then puts on the cap. Not a perfect disguise, but the uniform will make him as good as invisible to most people. Except, hopefully, the one who counts.

He waits until his corner of the deck is free of observers, then he reaches up for the railing of the next deck and climbs up in the shadow of a lifeboat. He finds a couple of woollen blankets with the White-Star-Line label stored away and picks them up - that way it won't look as if he’s just milling about with nothing to do.

Just as he'd hoped, no one spares a second look for him on the promenade deck. He makes sure to stay away from other White Star employees just in case, but on a ship as big as this, on its maiden voyage with a completely new crew, it's unlikely he would be singled out as an intruder. Or so he figures. 

Unfortunately, Freddie is nowhere to be seen. Of course, Roger hadn't really thought it would be that easy. The first class area on this ship must be vast. 

He is about to head inside, when the door of the bridge opens and the white-bearded figure of Captain Smith emerges, leading a group of well-dressed passengers outside. Among them, Roger recognises Freddie’s mother and sister, Cy Wadia and that American woman who he was afraid might propose to him all through dinner, Molly Brown. Following at the very end, alongside the ship's architect, is Freddie.

Roger's heartbeat speeds up. The wind is playing with his dark hair and the faint bruise on his cheek gives him a rakish look. But he also holds himself a little stiffly and his expression is sullen. Surely he wasn't seriously injured? He's probably just a bit hungover.

A young officer comes up to the Captain just as he is about to lead the group downstairs to the promenade deck and hands him a note. Roger is close enough to hear him say: "Another ice warning, sir. This one from the Baltic."

"Thank you, Sparks." The captain dismisses him with a nod and puts the message in his pocket after giving it a cursory glance. Then he looks up at the group of passengers and smiles reassuringly. "Not to worry about, it's quite normal for this time of year. In fact, we're speeding up. I've just ordered the last boilers lit."

Roger isn't sure how that is supposed to be reassuring, but the passengers don't seem to mind. Except for Mr. Andrews, who looks like he's biting his tongue. But his sour expression disappears when Kashmira starts to make conversation with him as they move along the promenade deck. 

Roger edges a little closer, keeping his back to the group as much as he can, pretending to adjust the positioning of the deck chairs. Then the wind carries bits of the conversation to his ears.

"...not enough capacity for everyone on the ship, is there?" A harsh gust of wind swallows up Kash’s next words. "...more stowed away elsewhere?"

Roger finds another deck chair closer to the group he can busy himself with. Adjust the angle of the backrest. Push it back a little so it has a bit more of the afternoon sun. 

"There are four collapsible boats, two on each side", Thomas Andrews replies. "But you are absolutely right, we only have space for about half the passengers on board. In fact, I put in these new type davits, which _could_ take an extra row of boats here." He gestures at the free deck space right next to the first row of lifeboats. "But it was thought... by _some_... that the deck would be too cluttered." Clearly, the architect had been overruled by the powers that be, and he isn't at all happy about it.

Kash frowns and stops walking, regarding the wooden lifeboat she is standing next to with a worried look. "I would have thought there were regulations in place."

"Oh, there are, miss. And we are complying with them. In fact, we are exceeding the mandatory lifeboat capacity for a ship of this class."

At that, Wadia turns around and slaps his flat hand against one of the lifeboats. "Waste of space as it is", he exclaims. "On an unsinkable ship."

Kash purses her lips and seemes on the verge of answering back, but Andrews is a master in the art of perpetual diplomacy and steps in.

"Don't worry, Miss Bulsara”, he says with a smile. “I built you a strong ship. It will be all the lifeboat you need."

Kash smiles politely. "I'm sure it is."

Wadia is satisfied with that and turns back around to join the captain. Soon after, Mr Andrews excuses himself to talk to a crew member gesturing at him from the bridge.

The group moves on with Freddie trailing slightly behind, giving one of the lifeboats a critical look. Roger hurries down the deck until he is in Freddie's line of sight and starts clearing a small table. When he is sure that none of the other passengers are watching him, he raises his head to show his face to Freddie. It takes him one or two confused seconds, but then his eyes widen in recognition. Roger gives a tiny nod in the direction of a nearby doorway. Freddie shakes his head minutely and quickens his pace to catch up with the group.

What's the matter with him? This tour of the ship can't be that bloody interesting! Maybe he just didn't understand?

Freddie gives him another glance over his shoulder and Roger takes his chance to gesture more overtly, but again Freddie just shakes his head and walks on. He has reached the other passengers now and pretends to listen to Captain Smith's explanations and Wadia's tedious interjections. 

Has the spark that had shone so brightly in Freddie last night really gone out so quickly again? Roger decides to give it one last try. A bit risky perhaps, but that never stopped him. 

He scribbles a short note and approaches Freddie directly. Keeping his head down deferentially, he presses the scrap of paper into Freddie’s hand and murmurs "A message from Mr Taylor, sir."

Roger doesn't linger to observe Freddie's reaction; he walks down the deck and directly through the door he's seen before.

It's a kind of gymnasium, equipped with all sorts of ridiculous machinery. A rowing machine, a mechanical bicycle, a… he actually has no idea idea what that thing is supposed to be. There’s a saddle on it or some reason. He inspects the contraption while he waits impatiently for Freddie to get a move on. 

After a few minutes, the door bangs open.

Roger rises from where he's been crouched by what he suspects might be an electric version of a horse. He really doesn't understand these people. "Freddie!"

Freddie slams the door shut behind him and gives the room a quick efficient sweep with his eyes to make sure they are alone. Then he zeroes in on Roger. "You can't do that", he hisses in a voice that is only inches away from a shout.

"Do what?" Roger is scrambling to square this tense, irritable man with the one he remembers from the night before, the one who was laughing and pliant in his arms and who couldn’t have been happier to be with him.

"You cannot sneak around me all day and demand my attention whenever you feel like it. Do you have any idea what this looks like?"

Roger crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Dunno. What _does_ it look like?"

"Like you're... like I'm..." Freddie clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath through his nose. "It's entirely inappropriate."

"Freddie..."

"And it's Mr Bulsara to you."

Roger takes a step backwards and gapes at Freddie, at a loss at how to respond. That is bloody ridiculous. 

Freddie straightens his shoulders and goes on. "This", he gestures to the deck outside, "is where I belong."

"But you are not like them."

"I'm not like you either." Freddie's voice is harsh, his face stony, but the look in his eyes is not that of a master barking orders. It's that of a cornered fox, hissing at the hunters in a desperate bid for his life.

Roger shakes his head. "So you’re honestly trying to tell me that you’d rather join this ridiculous posse for a Captain’s dinner or a Bridge night or, or, whatever the hell else, than have some fun with me? Go for a smoke, play some poker with the lads, or maybe try and sneak into the..."

“Perhaps life is not all about fun. Have you ever thought about that, hm?” Before Roger can cut in, he goes on. “And I happen to _like_ Bridge.”

“Oh really? Yes, I practically had to put you in chains so you wouldn’t run off to play Bridge with your fellow toffs last night. Help me out - was that before or after you begged me for just one more dance?”

Freddie looks like he’s seconds away from clocking him. "How dare you."

"How dare I tell the truth? How dare I not slink away below deck after you've had your fun? You're suffocating in this place, can't you see that?"

Freddie swallows hard. His gaze clings to Roger's face so desperately that Roger thinks maybe he got through. They're only a foot or so apart and it would be so easy to lean forward and... 

But then Freddie takes a step back. He sets his jaw and pulls his upper lip over his teeth.

“This is my family out there. My life. You”, he stabs an angry finger in Roger’s direction “you know _nothing_ about any of it.”

Anger quickly replaces every other emotion Roger might be feeling. “Oh yeah? You think I don’t have a family? A family who thought they knew what’s best for me too?” 

Freddie just scoffs as if he can’t be bothered with something as unimportant as Roger’s family. 

“You’re such a bloody coward, Freddie.”

For a moment it looks as though they’re headed for a repeat of the boxing match. But then Freddie turns on his heel and marches towards the door. Dammit, that stubborn bastard. 

“If you walk out of here”, Roger calls out as a shaft of sunlight falls in through the open door, “you’ll regret it. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Freddie pauses, his slim figure silhouetted against the bright light. “It’s not your place to save me.”

The door falls shut behind him. 

* * *

#####  **11 am**

Freddie gets up hastily, putting his napkin down on the table. "Mātā." 

She smiles tightly and waves at him to stay put.

He sits down apprehensively and indicates the table laid out in front of him. "Would you like to share..."

"I've already had breakfast. With Cyrus and your sister."

Oh. Oh, of course. They usually all take breakfast together - and a lot earlier than now. _Early to bed and early to rise..._ One of his father's favourite sayings. Freddie feels his appetite dwindle. 

"But I would take some tea", his mother continues.

"Of course." He pours her a cup while she sits down across from him. 

She takes a sip of her tea and then puts the cup back on its saucer so carefully that not even the slightest clink of china is heard. "Text with Creator's Style turned off."

"Text with Creator's Style turned off." The memory of how he stumbled back to his suite - drunk on more than just ale - fills him with a mixture of embarrassment and shivery delight. He looks up to see he's being observed by watchful eyes and quickly banishes the foolish smile from his face.

"Text with Creator's Style turned off?"

Freddie's hand goes up to prod the bruise automatically. It is still a little tender. And he hasn't spent a single thought on making up a likely story. "Er... Text with Creator's Style turned off."

"Text with Creator's Style turned off!"

His knife and fork clatter onto the plate as he sits up straight, eyes lowered, breath coming fast. She _cannot_ know. How would she know? "Text with Creator's Style turned off-"

"Text with Creator's Style turned off, Farrokh." Her voice is quiet, but her words cut like glass.

"Text with Creator's Style turned off", he whispers. His brain is working feverishly. Did someone spot them? But who would know... Of course. Cy and his serpent of a valet. How much had he seen? It hadn't gone any further than dancing, but in the bright light of day, under the disapproving gaze of his mother, that suddenly appears very far indeed. "I was hit", he says finally, giving her the smallest morsel of truth he can find. "I am sorry."

"So it is true? That you spent your night... _brawling_ with, with coal trimmers and cook’s mates?"

So she only knows about that. Freddie hopes his sigh of relief sounds like one of frustration. He sits up a little straighter. "I'm not a child, mother."

"No, you are not a child." Her anger has transformed into something calmer and colder. "And this is not child's play. Look at me." She waits until his gaze meets her eyes. "You are our family's future. Don't you understand that, Farrokh?"

Freddie stares at the table as waves of shame and resentment roll through him. His world that had seemed too expansive and beautiful is rapidly shrinking back to the stifling reality that is the price he has to pay for being the only son.

His mother pushes her cup aside. "Your father has given everything for the success of the company."

Yes, and look at him, Freddie thinks. Barely knows the faces of his children or the sorrows of his wife. All he sees are numbers and ledgers and contracts and pricing tables. "I know", he says.

"This connection to America, to the cotton trade, it is vital. Think of your sister and her prospects. Think of..."

"I know, I know all that!" Freddie squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath to keep his composure. He knows it in his bones. 

"I know it must be very difficult for you, my darling." Her forehead creases in genuine concern. "It is not a life that fits you, I see that."

"Nothing ever fits me", he says. " _I_ don't ever fit." Except yesterday night, when he'd swayed in the arms of... He clenches his hands to chase the memory away.

"I know, Text with Creator's Style turned off", she says quietly. She lies her hand down on the table, just inches from his balled fist. She used to take his hand all the time when he was little, sit him on her lap, tousle his hair when he was sick or scared. All that changed the year he was sent off to school. _You are spoiling the boy, Jer_. 

She takes her hand back and straightens up. "Everyone has a duty. And your father trusts you to fulfil yours."

“He doesn’t trust me”, it bursts out of Freddie. He presses his lips together and digs his fingernails into his palms to calm his voice back down. 

Yes, everyone has a duty, and everyone in his family plays their part. His mother, his father, his uncle, every bloody relative back in India. Even Kash. The only one who doesn't, who failed to play his part time and time again, is him. _Farrokh has run away from school. Farrokh has failed his exams. Farrokh has mixed up the names of our most important financiers and insulted them at the reception. Farrokh is pretending to be a ballerina again._ The only thing he does reliably is disappoint.

No, he is not here because his father puts his faith in him. 

"I'm an embarrassment to him." He wants to sound cool and defiant, but his voice is small even in his own ears.

For the first time, a little bit of softness appears in his mother’s expression. "Do you really think your father would have sent his oldest friend an embarrassment?" 

“He won’t even come to the wedding. To _my_ wedding.”

“You know he wanted to come. But with the supply difficulties and the negotiations with the creditor’s coming up there was just no…”

“No, there never is”, Freddie scoffs. There is always something more important. 

“Don’t interrupt me.” 

“Apologies”, Freddie mutters. 

His mother shakes her head. "This will do you good, Farrokh. A new environment. Responsibility. A wife at your side."

Freddie lowers his head and says nothing.

"This Mr Taylor..." Her brow wrinkles slightly, as if she has to think hard to recall his name, but Freddie knows she would never forget the name of anyone even remotely connected to the family, even if it's only that of the third scullery maid. "He is quite the character."

Freddie is suddenly too busy sipping the tea that feels like acid in his stomach to answer.

"I assume his _lifestyle_ has a certain spurious appeal. Floating through the world with neither roots nor responsibilities, free of all convention... to a romantic mind, this might sound very attractive."

"Mā, please." Freddie's face is burning, he knows it is and he cannot have her talk like this. She doesn't mean it like that, but Freddie can't deny in his heart of hearts how much deeper his betrayal goes.

"I would just like to remind you that you had a lot more freedoms than most others. Now is not the time to get distracted by some… some free-spirited bohemian." She puts her napkin on the table and stands up. 

Freddie follows suit. "Of course not."

“The captain has invited us for a tour of the ship after lunch.” Her tone makes it clear that his attendance is not optional. 

“Yes, Mā."

She leans in so he can kiss her cheek goodbye. "And Farrokh”, she says as she turns to leave, a warmer look in her eyes. “There are worse fates in the world than marrying a beautiful young woman and taking over a successful business."

Yes, he thinks bitterly. Yes, she is right and he knows it. And that is the worst of all.

When she's gone, Freddie spends a few more minutes listlessly picking at his breakfast before he gives up and goes to get dressed. When he passes by the piano, he picks up the notes he wrote last night and tears them to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful [painkiller80](https://painkiller80.tumblr.com/post/613593137222451200/buy-painkiller80-a-coffee-ko-ficompainkiller80) has created a moodboard for this story:  
> 
> 
> This is the gymnasium where the argument between Roger and Freddie takes place. It contained not only an electric horse, but also an electric camel lol:  
> 
> 
> There's a [deleted scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abXmjbLr63w) from the movie on YouTube where Rose's family gets a tour of the gymnasium by a very proud instructor. You can see all the equipment in action!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Soundtrack**  
>  James Horner - The Portrait
> 
> Extra special thanks my lovely betas, [emma_and_orlando](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/pseuds/emma_and_orlando) and [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally). You guys are great 😘

####  **Saturday 13th April**

#####  **8pm, Forecastle Deck**

The sun is setting in spectacular reds and oranges, as if the sky were backlighted by low-glowing embers. Roger wishes he had a full set of coloured crayons so he could at least try and capture the sight before him. But all he’s got is a couple of pencils and some charcoal. 

He draws his jacket tighter around himself and rubs his hands together. The air is crisp and clean, icy for a spring evening. Roger is sitting at the bow of the ship, his back against the railing, and lets the pencil run lazily over the pages of his notepad. It always clears his mind when he’s got something to do with his hands. 

There’s another party planned later tonight. He’s looking forward to it. Very much so, in fact. Have another go with the band, get a couple of drinks in him... maybe dance with some of the girls, who’ll know the steps and won’t pick fights with anyone and won’t snap at him when he just tries to talk to them the next day.

He looks down at the paper and there’s the faint outline of two hands, one slightly larger than the other, locked in a dance hold. It’s blurred enough that Roger can tell himself one of those is a female hand. 

The crashing of the waves against the steel body of the ship is dulled to a background drone up here, but it's loud enough that Roger startles when two feet step into his field of vision. Fine black leather shoes, black trousers. They come to a halt, still about 12 feet away, as if Freddie’s unsure whether his presence is welcome. 

He’s not wrong, Roger thinks, despite his mind already fantasising about all the ways Freddie is going to apologise to him. Although quite possibly he’s only come to offer him some money to stay away and keep his mouth shut. Whatever his class imagines the honourable thing to be. He wonders how much he’s worth.

He takes care to finish some shading that he didn’t even intend to put in there with great concentration before he looks up. 

Freddie looks stunning in the warm colours of the setting sun, his dark hair shining in all colours of autumn. His face is tense though, shoulders drawn back and his hands carefully still at his side. 

For a few seconds, neither of them says anything. Then Freddie looks down, like he’s collecting his thoughts and finally meets Roger’s eyes. 

"You were right."

Roger raises his eyebrows, trying to look cool and unruffled and not as though his heart is beating a breathless rhythm in his chest. 

"I have four days left before we land”, Freddie goes on. “I don't want to waste them on..." He pauses for a moment, then waves a hand in the direction of the upper decks. "...on this." 

Roger knows what he means, has experienced it during the dinner, seen it in the difference of Freddie’s behaviour. Conversations that never go beneath the surface. Pretty made-up faces hiding spiteful minds. Corsets and stiffened collars that choke the life out of any spirited person. 

But still. “And what’s that”, he asks, simply because Freddie owes him that much. 

“Endless dinners with people who think worth can be measured in dollars and pounds”, Freddie says succinctly. “If… if that’s what my life is going to be like, I… I’ll make my peace with it, somehow. But these four days out here…” He squares his jaw and gives a small nod. 

It’s the saddest thing Roger has ever heard. What are four days measured against a lifetime? What an awful trade. How long would it be until Freddie found himself hanging off the railing of another ship? Or testing the ice on a lake after the first frost?

_“It’s not your place to save me.”_

He doesn’t really have a choice, does he? He can refuse Freddie, send him back to his golden prison and spend the rest of the journey trying not to think of him. (While fearing with one small part of his mind to hear the news of a man having gone overboard at breakfast). Or he can try to pack as much fun as he can think of into the days and nights ahead of them. And when the ship lands and they part ways, he can cling on to the hope that maybe those memories are enough to get Freddie through whatever’s ahead of him. 

Roger considers Freddie for a long moment, tapping his fingers against the drawing pad. "What would you like to waste your time on, then?"

"Dancing”, Freddie replies immediately, like the word has just been waiting to break out from between his lips. “Sneaking into the machine rooms just to see if I can. Er, learning to play the bodhran. Losing at poker." 

Roger can’t help the slow smile he feels appearing on his face at Freddie’s eagerness. 

"Entering into an arm-wrestling competition”, Freddie continues, his hands starting to move about excitedly as some of the tension drains from him. “Singing. Drawing." He takes a deep breath, then another. Then, very quickly, like he pushes the words out before he has time to think them through: "Posing for a drawing. For you."

Freddie has held Roger’s gaze throughout, but now his gaze drops back to his shoes. 

Despite the rushing of the wind and the breaking of the bow wave, Roger’s sure the sudden, furious beating of his heart must be audible to every last person on this ship. 

Freddie can’t mean… but he very obviously does, doesn’t he?

Roger tucks his notebook under his arm and stands up. He slouches against the railing in a lazy contrapposto, feeling the wind rustling his hair. He waits patiently until Freddie looks back up at him again. "Where?"

“In my suite”, Freddie says. “The, er. The lighting will be better."

It’s a feeble excuse. The light out here is perfect right now and Freddie knows it as well as he does.

But Roger’s happy to take it. He just nods and pushes himself off the railing. The flush on Freddie’s face isn't just because of the cold, of that Roger is certain. 

Together, they make their way towards the first class entrance.

~~~

The suite is even more opulent than Roger had imagined. It looks like it has been carved from one block of the finest mahogany, decorated with gilded fittings and satin drapings. It's more spacious than the entire cottage Roger had grown up in, and it houses only one man instead of a family.

He notices that Freddie discreetly locks the door before his eyes are drawn to a large canvas painting leaning against a wall. "Good heavens", he breathes. "Is that a Monet?"

Freddie smiles, looking pleasantly surprised, as if he didn't expect Roger to recognize it. "Yes. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Roger studies the delicate sea roses a moment longer, then turns his head towards Freddie and lets his eyes travel up his body as slowly as he dares. "Oh yes", he says when he's finally reached Freddie's eyes. "Beautiful."

Freddie stares at him for a moment, a blush creeping out of the collar of his shirt and into his cheeks. Then he turns around on his heel and hurries towards the next room. "Wait there", he calls out.

Roger takes the moment to take a deep breath. He can't come on too strong here. They're only talking about a drawing session and although the implications are hanging heavily in the air, for the moment at least, that's what it is. And his job right now is to make sure his soon-to-be model is as comfortable as possible.

He looks at the other paintings strewn about the room, more modern and abstract than the Monet. Roger inspects them curiously, wondering what has drawn Freddie to these avant-garde artists. Freddie told him he used to draw himself. Did his own creations look anything like this?

Freddie returns from the other room, carrying a small velvet box. He opens it and lifts a golden necklace studded with emeralds out of it. Even in the low artificial light the gemstones are sparkling. The gleaming metal flows around Freddie's long fingers like silk.

Roger gives a low whistle and runs a finger over the biggest stone, right in the middle. This small thing is worth more than he'll ever be in his entire life. It drives home the gulf between him and Freddie, who might treat him like an equal, but who also owns something like this. What different worlds they live in. 

He pushes the thought away and looks at Freddie. "Is that going to be my commission? Normally I only take cash, but I guess I can make an exception."

Freddie smiles ruefully. "If it were up to me, you could have it. But it's not mine. It was my grandmother's and then father gave it to mother when they married - and now I am supposed to give it to Avabai. My fiancée."

"She's a lucky woman."

Freddie shrugs and puts the necklace back in the box. Before he can close it, Roger stops him by putting his hand on the box, right next to Freddie’s. "Can I draw you with this?"

"I..." Freddie looks between Roger, the necklace and their hands so close to each other. "I've never worn..."

"No, I mean..." Roger gestures at the necklace. "May I?" When Freddie nods, he takes it out again and gently takes Freddie's wrist. He turns his palm up and drapes the golden chain loosely around his fingers. It looks warm and alive against his rich skin. "Like that", Roger says without taking his eyes off it.

"...s", Freddie whispers, then clears his throat. "Yes, alright."

Roger lets the moment hang in the air between them for another second, then takes a step back. "Right. Shall we get started then?"

* * *

Freddie stands awkwardly in the living room, feeling completely useless while Roger walks around and sets the scene for the drawing. He considers several spots - for what, Freddie doesn't know, lighting probably - before he comes to a conclusion.

He walks to an elegant sofa standing in the corner and before Freddie can ask if he can help, he's shoved it into the middle of the room, right underneath the central chandelier. He clasps his hands behind his back for a moment to consider it, then adjusts the angle minutely.

Freddie allows himself a small smile. _Monsieur Artiste_ in his element.

"Alright?"

"Yes", Freddie is startled out of his reverie. "Yes, that will do fine. I think." In fact he tries not to think at all. Tries not to picture himself on that sofa.

"Good. Er, can you turn up the heat a bit?"

"The heat?"

"Yes. More comfortable that way. And I hate drawing with clammy fingers."

"Oh. Yes, yes of course." Freddie hurries towards the fireplace and turns some of the nobs until the gas flame flares up brighter.

And then he's standing in the middle of the room while Roger looks at him expectantly and he realises that this is it. He's actually going to... no, no, no, don't think about it, he'll surely _die_ if he thinks about it, he'll just have to _do_ it.

And so he shrugs out of his jacket as if it's the most natural thing in the world, as if he’s done so hundreds of times, and reaches for the top buttons of his shirt.

After the first three are open, he notices that Roger has gone very still, staring at his fingers where they are at the base of his neck with wide open eyes and a stunned expression on his face.

Freddie's stomach drops. He’s completely misread the situation, hasn’t he? After all, the words 'nude' or 'like those French boys' had never been uttered. He couldn’t have said them, he can hardly _think_ them after all. But it's not like Roger only draws nudes, he's perfectly able to draw clothed people as well, and now Freddie's gone and started undressing in front of him, oh _god_. His face is burning, the humiliation coursing through him like wildfire, leaving bitter ashes in its wake.

This has got to stop. This has been a stupid idea from the start, Freddie never should have... He'll just ask Roger to leave. Now he knows what Freddie's been on about he won't want to see him again anyway, he'll be disgusted and glad to stay as far away from him as this ship will allow.

"Do you have a robe?"

"Hm?" The words barely register. He's staring at the carpeted floor like his gaze is glued there, only Roger's feet visible in the periphery of his vision.

"A bathrobe or something. It's... it's how I usually..." He laughs a bit nervously. He sounds a bit embarrassed, but not upset. "You know. So do you?"

Freddie nods.

"Right, so maybe you can go into the... next door to... prepare and then... then we'll figure everything else out."

Slowly, the mortification melts away as Freddie realises that Roger _is_ thinking along the same lines as him after all. He lets his eyes flick upward to his face and there's a slightly pinkish tint to Roger’s cheeks.

Freddie closes his eyes and lets out a deep, shuddering breath. He gives Roger a small nod and heads into the bedroom. Before his nerves can catch up with him again, he sheds his clothes as quickly as possible, avoiding a look in the mirror. He doesn't need to see the skinny, ungainly figure his eyes are going to meet there. Hopefully Roger's pencil will be kind rather than truthful. 

He shugs into his favourite silk kimono and ties the sash tightly around his waist. It makes him feel safe for now, calmer than he should be.

Then he steps back into the living room.

Roger is sitting in a chair opposite the sofa. He's taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. There's a drawing board on his knees and a fine leather bag filled with drawing utensils on the table beside him. He looks up from the piece of charcoal he is sharpening with a small knife when Freddie comes in.

From one moment to the next Freddie's heart is thumping in his chest so hard he's certain Roger can see it. His palms are clammy with sweat. Whatever calm he's managed to hold onto has just crumbled into dust. Because this is it. In a few seconds he's going to untie the sash and let the robe fall to the floor and Roger is going to see him as nobody has, ever, in his adult life.

Roger's eyes are huge and dark and fixed on the V at Freddie’s throat where the dressing gown gapes open. To his consternation and embarrassment, Freddie feels the first stirrings of arousal. His face is hot and he already regrets having turned the heat up. His body is a furnace.

Of all the bad, stupid, ridiculous ideas he's had in his life, this is the worst. What had he been thinking? But he's in so deep now that backing out would be even worse. With a bravery fuelled by desperation, he unties the sash with shaking hands and slides the kimono off his shoulders. He shivers as the fine material slides down the length of his body like a caress. He forces his hands to hang loosely beside him, repressing the urge to cover himself.

Enduring Roger's gaze causes a warm tingle to wash all over Freddie's skin. He can almost feel it ghosting over his skin, making each small hair on his body stands on end. He tries his level best not to react when Roger's eyes unabashedly trace the heavy weight between his legs. He looks so calm, so collected. Like an artist observing his model. 

Because that's what this is, stupid.

Freddie clears his throat and licks his lips, trying valiantly to appear cool and aloof and failing utterly.

"Get on the bed… er, the sofa."

The slip makes Freddie smirk. So at least he is not the only one affected. He sits down awkwardly, automatically angling his body away from Roger.

"Right.” Roger takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to get his bearings. “Now lean back. No, leave your feet on the floor, a bit at an angle. Yes, like that." Roger seems to find his balance a bit as he directs him into the position. Weirdly, so does Freddie. "One hand on your thigh, a little higher. Good. The other over the arm of the sofa, palm up."

Freddie follows the instructions as precisely as he can, grateful for the distraction. He arranges his limbs this way and that as Roger gives him minute corrections.

"Are you comfortable?"

Freddie chuckles. "This is the most uncomfortable moment of my life", he admits.

"Physically, I mean. You'll have to stay like that for quite a while, so try to find a position where you can settle in."

"I'm alright." He’s slouched a bit and he’ll probably feel that in his lower back in a while, but for the moment he’s quite comfortable. Apart from the fact that he is completely naked in front of another man. 

"Good. Now." Roger gets up from his chair and retrieves the necklace from it's box on the mantle. He crouches down next to Freddie and the sudden proximity has Freddie breathless.

Roger drapes the necklace over his hand and around his fingers, as he's done before, so that bits of gold chain dangle freely and the central emerald is resting his palm. 

"Relax your fingers", Roger says and runs a finger down over his palm. The contact is electric and Freddie bites his lips to keep from gasping. He wriggles his fingers a few times until they feel a bit looser.

"Very good", Roger says. Freddie feels a warm glow at the praise.

"You like hands, don't you", Freddie ventures bravely.

"Hmmm." Roger hums noncommittally, then raises a hand to Freddie’s hair. "May I?"

Freddie nods although he knows this will wreck him. Roger's fingers slide into his hair, tousling it a bit, and it feels so good Freddie just wants to forget about the drawing and have him do that all night. It's over way too soon, but then Roger selects individual strands, letting them fall over his forehead or in a different direction. Every single move of his fingers sends a hot-and-cold tingle along Freddie’s spine.

Finally (too soon, way too soon) Roger is satisfied. He sits back down in his chair and takes up the drawing pad, then seems to remember something and reaches for the wrapper carrying his utensils. Then he unfolds a pair of glasses and puts them on.

Freddie's mouth pops open. "You..."

"Not a word", Roger grumbles. "It's a secret." 

He looks utterly charming with the simple, steel-rimmed frame. Not that he doesn't look charming otherwise, but this is such an unexpected sight. It's delightful.

"Alright. Stop that. No smiling allowed."

"Oui, monsieur", Freddie says and pulls his lips over his teeth.

"No, none of that either. Relax your mouth."

"But I..."

"You have such beautiful lips. I've been dying to draw them."

Freddie has to close his eyes for a second to deal with those words. Beautiful. Beautiful lips. And Roger's been thinking about them and... "My teeth. They're going to..." He gestures at them, then quickly brings his hand back onto his thigh at Roger's stern frown.

Roger puts the pad aside and sits forward, elbows on his knees. "Freddie, I want to draw you. So let me see you."

It's ridiculous. He's naked in front of this man, completely exposed, and yet he's worried about this _(Ugly. Ridiculous. Can't even take a proper photograph of him. Don't laugh. Hold it closed. Shame, really. He could be such a good-looking boy)_. He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. Then he lets his lips relax, although that means they fall open just a little bit.

"Yes, that's it. Now. Tilt your head down and to the side a bit. Eyes on me. Perfect."

Roger selects a charcoal and leans back in the chair. Whatever else might be going on in his mind, whatever Freddie might be hoping for in his deepest darkest thoughts, when he looks back up at Freddie his eyes are those of an artist regarding his model. His gaze flickers over Freddie's body and then to the empty sheet of paper a few times completely unhurried.

Finally, he begins to draw.

After a few minutes, Freddie feels himself sink into the situation: his shoulders relax and his breathing is soft and steady again. There is something meditative in watching Roger's quick, sure strokes over the paper, the way his brow furrows when he works out a detail, the quirk of his lips. Freddie's not good at staying still, but now he feels like he could stay like this for hours.

He amuses himself by speculating on what exactly Roger is drawing at any given moment. Light, broad strokes? Probably background. The small spot on the right that takes him ages where he sharpens his charcoal every couple of strokes? The necklace, maybe, and his hand. At one point, Roger pauses briefly, biting his lips and rubbing the back of his neck. From the movements of his hands and eyes, Freddie knows exactly which part of his anatomy he was currently working on. And instead of mortally embarrassed he feels a sort of power at the thought that it is affecting Roger, too.

"I think you're blushing, Monsieur Artiste", he teases languidly. "I don't think Monsieur Monet ever blushes."

Roger rolls his eyes. "He does landscapes. Don't smile."

"Right. Sorry." Yet Freddie finds it surprisingly difficult to keep his mouth from quirking up. He feels light as air and more beautiful than any searose.

They ease back into an atmosphere of relaxed concentration, the underlying charge not forgotten, but resting for the moment.

It takes the better part of two hours until the strokes of Roger's pencil gradually peter out, then become sporadic as he adds the finishing touches. He rests the pad on his knees a few minutes, looking between the paper and Freddie.

"Would you like to see", he asks finally. The mask of the self-assured artist begins to slip and there's a hint of insecurity in his voice.

Freddie slides off the sofa a little more stiffly than he likes and rolls his sore shoulders a few times. He slips into the dressing gown and walks over to Roger. He stands right next to him and just like that, the tension snaps back up like a drawn bow.

Roger holds up the drawing so that Freddie can see it. However nervous Roger might secretly have been, there is no trace of it in the drawing. It's all bold lines and subtle shadows, shaded suggestions contrasting with highlighted details. The figure in the picture looks languid, but his muscles and sinews are clearly defined and give him a look of wild energy momentarily at rest. The expression of his face is contemplative, yet there is a challenge in his eyes where they met the artist's gaze. His teeth are peeking out from under a sultry lip, Roger hasn't ignored them as Freddie had secretly hoped, but somehow they don't look ugly or menacing, just... just there. Part of him. Roger has paid particular attention to his hands, and he has made them look more sensuous and elegant than they deserve.

It's exactly what Freddie wishes to see when he looks in the mirror. "It's beautiful." He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Roger shakes his head. "It pales in comparison to the original", he says, keeping his eyes on the drawing.

"I don't require flattery", Freddie says, drawing the robe more tightly around him.

Roger looks up from where he's sitting, his blue eyes shining bright behind the glasses. "No", he says. "You don't."

For once in his life, Freddie finds he doesn't have an answer. He isn't sure if there even is an answer or whether one is required of him at all. There is no more than an arm's length between them, and the thought of breaching it is treacherously close. And all Freddie is wearing is a thin sheet of silk, the sash sloppily tied, so easy to slide off, or to be pushed up over his thighs, his hips. He swallows hard and the air between them is thick like honey. It's drowning him, drawing him under and he can't...

"Would you like a drink", he hears himself say as he takes a step back, and immediately he wants to bash his head against the wall in despair. He had to, he _couldn't_ , but that was the moment, the one moment where he might have been able to bring himself to do it, and he ruined it. Like he ruins everything.

"Sure I'd like a drink", Roger says, taking off his glasses and carefully stowing them away. "Scotch, perhaps? And can we get some food delivered in here? I'm starving."

Freddie turns around. Roger isn't looking at him like he's the biggest fool on earth. He looks relaxed and content and not like he'd rather be anywhere but here. Freddie takes up an orange from the (largely decorative) fruit tray. "All I can offer you is this", he says. "Or we can go out to the restaurant if you like." He tries to look as at ease as Roger. "I still owe you your commission fee."

Roger leans back in his chair, stretching his back. His shirt front tautens over his chest. "Dunno. I like it here." He gets up and ambles to where Freddie is standing, perusing the fruit tray leisurely. "Ooh, lovely. Got any peaches too? And how about a deck of cards?"

"I might be able to scrounge those up."

"Good", Roger nods, like it's been decided. "How about you get dressed and I fix us some drinks then."

And so they stay.

Freddie quickly finds out that it was a good thing he phrased the first item on his to-do-list as ‘losing at poker’, because there's no way he's ever going to be good at it. Roger makes him play for pennies and later, when his meager supply of small change has run out - stories. And so Roger gets to know about the time he'd broken his father's reading glasses and lied about it, the best hiding places in his family home, and the name of the lady's maid Freddie had been undyingly in love with as a seven year-old. 

Roger is - of course - excellent at cards. He doesn't even seem to be paying attention all that hard, but still he wins almost every single hand. Every time Freddie thinks he's worked out Roger's tactics or spotted a tell, it turns out to be a double or triple bluff. And the few times Freddie holds an excellent hand, Roger folds before the betting even really gets started. Strangely, Freddie doesn't mind losing round after round, though, because watching Roger excel at things is quickly becoming his new favourite pastime.

He looks brilliant like this, only in his shirt and braces and with his sleeves rolled up. Freddie tells himself that he ought to have seen his fill earlier during the drawing (and the fresh memory of that sends a bolt of heat through him every time he revisits it). But there is something about seeing him so carelessly dressed and childishly happy every time he wins another round that makes Freddie's chest contract almost painfully with affection. This - just sitting together laughing, talking about each other's pasts and dreams, freed from the strict observance of social convention - is new and so precious.

There had been moments like this - treasured in his memories - between his Kash and him when she was little, before he was sent away to school. Between David and him during that first year at Harrow, when everything wasn't horrible yet. 

He doesn't want to dwell on the kind of affection he is feeling for Roger, the desires lurking beneath the surface darker than innocent friendship. However badly he might have performed in school and uni and business, the one thing he has done well is not to act on his most immoral impulses. He had been so good at ignoring these cravings that he'd almost been able to forget what kind of creature he had been born.

Now he is a moth circling the flame, and he is observing himself from the outside, knowing full well that he'll get burned, but he has neither the strength nor - if he is completely honest - the will to uphold a safe distance. Four days, then he'll be tied down in his new home in America and Roger is going to be blown away by the winds. Whatever happens here, he can chalk it up to cabin fever, a temporary weakness caused by the loss of his home, to the seductive powers of this ocean demon with his quick wit, his lithe body and sky-blue eyes.

It's a memory to cling to for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a special treat:  
> 
> 
> A drawing of Freddie by the multitalented Nastally! How amazing is that?! 💖  
> (Go [ here](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49734151023_a249f02cca_b.jpg) for a full sized version)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Soundtrack:**  
>  Ludwig van Beethoven - [Moonlight Sonata, 3rd Movement "Presto Agitato"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zucBfXpCA6s)  
> Frédéric Chopin - [Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9E6b3swbnWg)  
> The Titanic Band - [Come Josephine in My Flying Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hhabhGDblCA) (Piano Version)
> 
> Thanks to [emma_and_orlando](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/pseuds/emma_and_orlando) and [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally) for their beating, and to [plainxte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainxte/pseuds/Plainxte) for discussing piano music with me 💖 You guys rock!

The ship has gone quiet, it's lights dimmed as it glides through the night. Only the occasional muffled laughter of a returning party-goer or the steady step of a steward making his rounds disturbs the silence. The warm light of the gas fire and three whisky-sodas each have lulled Freddie and Roger into a comfortable laziness. They’re sitting on the ground, Roger lounging against the side of the sofa and Freddie against the outer wall, just below the window. 

"You said you used to draw as well", Roger says after a while. “Why’ve you stopped?”

"Waste of time", Freddie replies, then startles visibly. "Sorry, I didn't mean..."

"Why would you say that?" Roger doesn't believe for one moment that Freddie truly thinks it’s true.

Freddie shrugs, looking sullen. "What good is ever going to come from it?"

"What a stupid question to ask." Roger sits up cross-legged. "We just spent two hours playing poker for scraps. What good will come of _that_?"

Freddie doesn't answer, he just scowls into his glass, his good mood gone. 

Roger leans back and softens his voice. "Did your parents tell you that?"

Freddie sucks his lips between his teeth and bites down on them. Then he nods.

As different as his family is from Freddie’s, Roger’s sure that they’d find common ground on the topic of good-for-nothing sons. "Right.” He lifts his glass and points one finger at Freddie. “Before we get off this ship, I will have you draw me."

"I can't..."

"I'll show you." Now, the idea of having Freddie's dark, smouldering eyes on his naked body for hours at a time might have something to do with his insistence. But there's so much to Freddie that’s hidden, so many depths to be unlocked. It's like he's an entombed treasure chest that has to be dug up, carefully, bit by bit.

Freddie blushes. It derails Roger's train of thought right back to their earlier drawing session. It's not that Roger has never felt attracted to one of his models before - in fact, that is the norm rather than the exception - but never like that. Freddie's mixture of uptight shyness and determination, the way he'd bravely given himself to the process had been intoxicating, charging the air with an electric current that made it hard for Roger to retain a professional air.

"What else have they told you?"

Freddie sighs. "Look. There are things that are done and things that are not done. It turns out I'm naturally good only at the second kind."

Roger pours himself some more of that really excellent whiskey. Freddie's life sounds mostly dreadful, but there are some things he could get used to. He swirls the amber liquid around in the glass. "Is it because of... because of where you're from?"

Freddie does a double take. "What, London?" Then eyes widen in understanding. "Oh right." He looks a bit morose, like he doesn't want to talk about it. Which makes sense given that he had introduced himself as Freddie, not Farrokh.

He probably thinks Roger is going to make fun of him or to think lesser of him for it. "I know loads of foreign people", Roger says. "Shared room with a Muslim fellow in Paris for a while, he was from Morocco I think, but a great guy. And, well, you've seen what it looks like below deck, it can feel like a Bazaar, but I think that’s..."

Freddie springs to his feet. "I was _born_ in London", he shouts. "My father first came here when he was 22. I went to school here, I studied here."

"Alright, alright." Roger raises his hands placatingly. He is only trying to help. 

"I have been to India twice in my entire life and while I was there, everyone laughed at my horrible Gujarati and my English accent and the fact that I got sunburn all the time."

"Yes, alright, I get it, you..." But Roger barely gets a word in edgewise. 

"And I am not Muslim!”

"Yes, I saw that", Roger yells back. Freddie stares at him with an expression like he’s about to have a stroke. Probably not very sensitive of him to bring that up. “But I wouldn’t mind if you were”, he adds quickly, to make his point.

"Well, I'm not."

"Understood.”

Freddie scowls and walks over to the drinks cupboard, only to realise his glass is still half full. He crosses his arms and leans against a chair.

"So", Roger says after a while and a few calming sips of whiskey. "India, huh. Hindu then?" 

Freddie rubs his hands over his eyes. He looks at Roger like a parent whose patience has been tested to the limit by a spirited 3-year old. "We're Zoroastrians", he says. " _Reformed_ Zoroastrians if you must know."

"Never heard of that."

"What, you never had a Zoroastrian fiddle player or something? How disappointing." His tone is biting, but at least he doesn't look like he wants to rip Roger's head off any longer.

"So what is it? Zoroastri… thing."

"It's..." Freddie takes a deep breath. "It's a very old religion with lots of rules and few followers."

"And how..."

Freddie raises a hand to shut him up. "Which really doesn't matter, because to answer your original question, no, it has nothing - well, maybe a little - to do with it. With anything." He sits back down on the floor, at an angle to Roger, leaning his back against the wall and drawing up his knees to his chest. "They're good people. Upstanding members of society. My father is honorary president of the community’s orphan fund, for heaven’s sake. They're just... For them, the most important thing in life is to make something of yourself. Serve your community, your family. Do right by your children."

"They're shipping you off to America to marry some girl you've never seen before!"

"An heiress", Freddie says. "Someone who'd never even have considered a… a failure like me if my parents hadn't put their connections - and their money - behind it. They're giving me a chance. A chance even after I squandered every single one they'd given me before."

Roger doesn’t believe for one second that it is all for Freddie’s sake. "And creating lots of useful business contacts in the process. How selfless."

"Well, that's..." Freddie shrugs helplessly. "At least that way I can do something. Show that I've got some worth."

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

"I don't expect you to understand."

Roger sits up. "Don't you."

"I mean, no offence, but with your background and everything..."

"My _background_?"

"Come on, you know what I mean."

"What _is_ my background, exactly?"

"Hm?" Freddie looks surprised. 

"My background. The one that makes it impossible for me to understand your situation. You seem to be some kind of expert on it, so please, explain it to me."

Silence. Just as Roger expected.

Freddie has the decency to look chastened. "Sorry. I... I shouldn't have assumed..." Then a twinkle comes into his eye. "Did you use to be an Earl or something? Forfeiting riches and status for the romance of the bohemian life?"

"A Duke, actually", Roger deadpans. "And I'd prefer it if you'd called me your Royal Highness from now on, thank you."

"A _royal_ Duke, look at that!" Freddie covers his mouth with his hand in a dramatic gesture. "Forgive my insolence."

Roger regards his fingernails. "Well, you're making me sit on the floor, drinking this _horrible_ whiskey.” Roger takes another sip of the frankly fantastic whiskey. “Clearly someone's forgetting his manners."

Freddie reaches one long arm up into the fruit tray. "May I offer your Royal Highness a delicious piece of exotic, er”, he looks at his catch, “apple?"

"Nah." Roger's already gorged himself on bananas and peaches. If anything, he'd like some cheese or something equally hearty, but that's not on offer. "Shoemaker", he says.

"Sorry?"

"My dad was one. Is one, I guess. I was supposed to be one too."

"It's a decent profession, shoemaking. A vital industry."

Roger gives Freddie a long look. "About as interesting as the wool trade, I guess. Only it doesn’t pay as well." His father’s drink had never been of the quality Roger’s enjoying right now, that’s for damn sure. 

"So you ran away to escape the dreadful fate of shoemaking?"

The shoemaking was the least of it. "Something like that", he says lightly. Turning the conversation to his family had been stupid. His eyes wander about the room, searching for something else to talk about. "So", he says, pointing at the ebony piano next to the door to the bedroom. "Is that another useless thing you're a natural at?"

Freddie cranes his neck. "Oh, the piano. The piano is actually a good thing. It is allowed."

"Play me something."

Freddie waves his hand. "Ah, boring."

Roger doesn't believe that anything Freddie does could be boring. Even watching him fiddle with the whiskey decanter is something Roger could do for hours. And he usually gets bored with things after five minutes. "Pretty please?" He blinks his eyes at him in a parody of a dainty lady.

Freddie gets up with a sigh. "I'm no good though", he warns as he sits down on the stool.

And then he proceeds to play a flawless, glittering stream of music, something classical that Roger has heard before but can't name.

"No good", Roger exclaims after the final flourishes. "No good, my arse!"

Freddie shrugs, a pretty little flush creeping into his cheeks. "It's nothing compared to Kash. I'm way too lazy to be any good."

"Rubbish!" Roger might not be classically trained, but he has a feel for music and what he heard just then was good. "Play another one!"

And so Freddie plays, Chopin mostly, as he explains, but veering into more modern stuff as well. Roger rolls onto his back and lets the music wash over him, humming along and tapping out the rhythm on his chest with his fingers.

"Ship ahoy! Oh joy, what a feeling. Where, boy? In the ceiling..." He only realizes he's singing along halfway through the first line. He looks up and sees Freddie grinning at him over his shoulder. He sits very upright at the piano, back stretched, a tension in him like a coiled string. The notes come sharp and precise with a rhythmic snap to it. Roger grins back and raises his voice for the next line. "Ho, High, Hoopla we fly to the sky so high!"

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me you could play like that? That you could sing like that?" Roger's eyes are shining with excitement.

Freddie ducks his head at the onslaught of praise. "It's really not that special.” Somehow, in his quest to impress Roger, he got carried away enough that he played that Beethoven piece he never really mastered. He’d put in so many blunders, Kash would have had a field day. “I just..."

"No.” Roger sits up and points a finger at him. “Shut up. You're bloody brilliant!"

Brilliant like a braying sheep, Freddie thinks. But Roger's enthusiasm feels so real that Freddie can't tamp down the treacherous glow in his chest. He _wants_ to believe it, he _wants_ Roger to think he's brilliant. 

Maybe just for the moment he can allow himself to believe it.

When he looks up again, Roger is standing right next him. Freddie's chest constricts in that now familiar sweet tightness. Roger puts a hand on his shoulder and Freddie’s fingers falter at the line they've been playing. Alternating C minor and D diminished arpeggios. 

He pulls his hands away from the keyboard like it's on fire. 

"Come on", Roger says, almost vibrating with excitement. "Let's head downstairs."

"Downstairs?" Freddie doesn't want to go downstairs. He wants to stay here, in this warm little cocoon and have Roger tell him he's brilliant and look at him like he means it and sometimes maybe put a hand on his shoulder.

"Yes! We’re gonna find Brian and maybe a couple of those Irish blokes. With you on the piano and Brian on fiddle we can..."

"No, no we can't, _I_ can't..."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Roger puts both hands on his hips, looking vexed. Freddie has the inexplicable urge to ruffle his hair. 

"Because that's how it is." Freddie turns back to the piano and runs his hands over the beautiful ivory keys.

Roger is still for a moment. Then he crouches down so his head is a bit lower than Freddie's and looks up at him. "Look. I don't know what kind of crap you've been told. But you, this?" He points between Freddie and the piano. "It's amazing."

He actually believes this. This brilliant man actually thinks Freddie is amazing. And the thing is that Roger seems to be neither delusional nor tone deaf, so Freddie has a hard time coming up with an explanation why he's wrong. Dangerous is what it is. _Thinks he's an artist. Thinks he's better than us. Who'd want to look at that_?

It's only when Roger takes his hand that he notices it's shaking. Roger’s looking up at him with infinite concern in his eyes. "We don't have to. But I think you should give it a try.” He squeezes Freddie's hand a bit.

He is so close with his eyes and his lips and his hair that smells like the ocean breeze, the clasp of his hand burning like a brand against his own.

The stool screeches over the wooden floor as Freddie jumps up. He feels faintly woozy from the whiskey and from getting up so quickly. "What are we waiting for”, he asks. He takes the drawing and the necklace from their place on the side table and hurriedly stashes them both in the safe. 

Roger is giving him an odd look, but Freddie doesn’t have the mind to analyse it too much right now. It takes all his effort not to trip over his own feet as he shrugs on his jacket and leds them both out of the suite. 

He knows what he’s running from, but he can’t stop. Not now. Not here. 

They head out into the corridor. Freddie tries to retrace his steps from last night to remember how to best get into the third class area when the portly figure of Colonel Gracie comes into view, walking down the hallway to their left. Freddie turns on his heel, to the right.

Roger scrambles to follow the abrupt change of direction. "What-"

"Pretend you haven't seen him."

"But-"

Good grief, Roger is actually slowing down, what on earth is wrong is him? "He'll invite us for drinks and there'll be all sorts of horrible people and he’s going to talk about important historic battles all night and..."

"Ah, Bulsara", Gracie calls out cheerfully just as Freddie rounds the corner with two quick steps, pulling Roger after him by his sleeve.

"Pretend you haven't heard him either!"

Roger hurries along now, but the corridor is long and narrow so Gracie is going to be around the corner in a minute and then Freddie will have no choice but to stop and talk to him. And that will mean being proper and polite and making conversation and if there's one thing Freddie cannot have right now it's conversation. It will burst that joyful bubble of excitement in his chest and make everything dull and drab again.

Then he spots the door right next to him, white and unremarkable, probably a storage closet. He hesitates for a second as he contemplates the stupidity of hiding away from an acquaintance just because he cannot stand feigning politeness for a minute. It's completely ridiculous. His mother would shake her head in exasperation. Cy would sneer at him. 

And that's exactly why he has to do it.

He pulls open the door and quickly steps inside, pulling Roger after him. It's not a storage closet. Instead they're on a narrow, dark staircase, obviously not meant for passengers.

Just as Freddie congratulates himself on the narrow escape, the door is pulled open and a uniformed steward pokes his head in. "Excuse me, sirs, but this is a service staircase and not meant for…"

Before the steward can finish his sentence, Roger has already gripped Freddie's upper arm and is bounding down the stairs, Freddie in tow. 

The steward calls after them. “You're really not allowed to be in here! I must insist!"

Roger only runs faster, his shoes clattering on the steps.

"Do you even know where we're going", Freddie asks, already feeling breathless from the run, the chase, Roger's hand on his arm.

Roger flashes him a bright toothy grin. "Down."

They fly down the stairs with no idea where they lead. On a whim, Freddie pulls open the next door they pass and runs into the corridor that opens up behind it. They run into a maid carrying a huge stack of towels. Freddie tries to apologize without breaking his stride and almost falls over as he runs backwards at breakneck speed. Roger keeps him upright with an arm tightly wound around his waist. They bump into the opposite wall and need a minute to sort themselves out, then - gripping each other's sleeves and sputtering with hysterical giggles - they round corner after corner, randomly choosing doorways and staircases, getting deeper and deeper into the belly of the ship.

Freddie has no idea why they're even running away this point, but it doesn't matter. They are sprinting and leaping, bounding down stairs and dodging anyone they encounter like runners on an obstacle course. It's glorious and he feels like he'll never be able to stop.

Somehow they end up in an engine room, a cavernous hall filled with gangways, control wheels and giant metal pipes. Freddie looks at Roger and Roger looks back at him and without saying another word, they both break out into laughter again. One more item off Freddie’s list.

The senior officer is not pleased at having a couple of passengers in his domain, cackling like madmen and not heeding his orders to stop. His shouts echo behind them as they push through a heavy steel door, not looking where it leads and only knowing one direction: forward as far as the ship will allow. They end up in a cramped, deserted control room that doesn't have any exits except for a trap door leading even further down. They must be far below the water line now. The thought makes Freddie queasy, but he pushes it aside and climbs even further down. 

The air is hot and damp and filled with soot. Men with arms like tree trunks, covered in sweat and grime, are ceaselessly shovelling coal into the voracious furnaces that power the ship's mighty engines. Someone shouts at them to get out, that it’s dangerous down there, but Roger has already taken his wrist and propelled them into motion again. They pass from one boiler room to the next, sweat and humidity collecting in grimy drops on their faces. When they finally break through the last door, Freddie's clothes are soaked and clinging to his body.

They are in one of the ship's huge storage rooms, where the passenger cargo is stowed. After the heat of the boiler rooms, the cold air is a welcome refreshment. They close the door behind them and lean with their backs against the steel wall, cooling down but still grinning like madmen.

"That was ridiculous", Freddie pants. "Why have we done that?"

"Because", Roger says and shrugs and then starts giggling again, his shoulders jumping under his jacket and Freddie can't help but join in.

When the last fits of laughter subsides, Freddie lets his head fall back against the wall, turning it a little so he can look at Roger. There had been something he wanted to say, some question about how they are ever going to find their way out again, but words desert him when his gaze is caught in Roger's bright eyes. His breath catches in his throat and a wave of warmth rolls through his body that has nothing to do with his earlier exertion. They're so close that their breaths mingle in the freezing air.

It is a far-off clang followed by the angry shout of a stoker in one of the boiler rooms that breaks the moment. Freddie trains his eyes on the floor, calling himself to heel. But there had been something in Roger's eyes too, hasn't there? Something that mirrors his own desires? Something that he'd seen before, during the drawing session and when they'd been dancing. Or is that just wishful thinking again, setting him up for mortifying embarrassment?

Everything he’s observed tells him he’s right, but the mere possibility that he’s wrong is terrifying. 

Desperate to end this moment, he pushes himself off the wall and walks a few steps towards an aisle between stacks of crates. "Come on", he says. "I've got to show you something."

Roger follows him into the cavernous store room. It's only lighted by a few sparse overhead lamps, and the light barely reaches between the walls built from cargo. They round a corner and end up in a small open space that has been created to make room for what is perhaps the single most valuable item in the room: a brand new touring car, lashed down to a pallet and gleaming red and gold even in the sparse lighting.

"Oh wow!" Roger is rooted to the spot, stunned for a minute, before he rushes over and runs his hand over the fender. "It's a Renault CB!"

Freddie watches him fondle the car and is inexplicably jealous of an inanimate object. "How do you know about cars?"

"Two years ago I worked on an estate over the summer, helping out with the horses and such", Roger says without taking his eyes off the gleaming metal. "There was a car there, a green Austin 15 hp."

"Did you ever ride in it?"

Roger throws him a derisive glance and snorts. "Are you mad? I wasn't even allowed to touch it. Not even for cleaning. They had someone specially for that.”

"Now that won't do at all, don't you think?" Freddie's heart is beating excitedly at the thought that he can show Roger something. He opens the rear door with a little bow. "Your Highness."

Roger hesitates for a moment, like he's going to argue about who gets to drive, but then he lifts his chin and looks down his nose at him. "Thank you, Frederick." He climbs inside and Freddie watches him run his hands over the red velvet upholstery. That man really has to touch everything he sees, doesn't he?

Before Freddie can be distracted by his own train of thought, he slides into the driver's seat. Seconds later, the window to the passenger compartment is being pushed down and Roger's head pops through the opening.

"It's Cy's", Freddie says. "He had it custom-built and taken aboard when we stopped in Cherbourg."

"He's raiding Europe for all its treasures, isn't he?"

Both the words and Roger's breath on his neck send the most exquisite shivers through Freddie. All he wants is to turn around and offer himself up, but he can't, he just _can't_. 

Instead he starts fiddling with the bewildering array of levers and buttons by the steering wheel.

A loud honk echoes through the silence and he jumps, clamping a hand over his mouth to keep himself from shrieking in a most unbecoming manner.

Roger is giggling behind him, a tinkling warm melody so close to his ear.

"You've absolutely no idea what you're doing, have you", Roger teases.

Freddie turns to defend his automobile competence, but then he feels Roger's breath on his cheek and the words die on his tongue. He keeps his eyes on the window fittings. "Not the faintest," he finally admits in a low voice. He lets his gaze flicker to Roger's face for the briefest moment. His heart is hammering so hard it sounds like hammer blows in the silence of the room. "Do you?"

The breathless second after is the longest in Freddie's life.

Then determined hands reach under his arms and pull him back, fairly lifting him out his seat and pulling him into the rear compartment. "Oh, I think I do", Roger grunts as Freddie tumbles inside. Without planning for it, he lands on top of Roger, half-lying on the seat, half kneeling on the floor. His mind is unable to take in all the places their bodies are touching, because it's _all_ the places, and Roger's face is really close, too, impossible to look away from.

One corner of Roger’s mouth quirks up in a devious grin. "Well", he says and makes absolutely no move to push Freddie away. In fact he looks completely comfortable and it makes Freddie a bit angry. He pushes himself up, but Roger stills him with one light hand on his chest.

Roger lifts his other hand to Freddie's face and traces the line of his cheek, his forehead, his nose.

Freddie almost forgets to close his mouth, so shattered is he by that touch.

"Nuh-uh", Roger says and flicks his lips playfully with his fingers. Freddie can't help a startled smile. "None of that." He rubs his fingers along Freddie's upper lip. "God, I've been wanting to do that for ages."

Freddie drops his head and draws deep ragged breaths. "You can't do that", he pants, his cheek pressing into Roger’s touch. "You can't just..." He looks up, grasping for the right words to make it clear to Roger that he is killing him with his voice and his eyes and his touch, but all he sees are slightly chapped lips, still quirked in a faint smile and he falls into them.

* * *

Freddie's lips are hot in the icy air of the unheated car. It's just an uncoordinated press of his mouth against Roger's, no finesse, not even much of a kiss, but finally that last barrier that's been between them has been shattered.

Roger lifts a hand to cup Freddie’s jaw and angles his head a little, drawing back so he can just slide his lips against Freddie in a soft caress. Freddie makes a low sound, a sigh like Roger's hurting something deep inside him. 

Roger draws back to look at him. Freddie's eyes are closed, a slight crease between his brows and his breath is coming fast and shallow. And all this from a kiss. A damn good kiss, if Roger says so himself, but still… 

It must be all the buildup. They’ve only known each other for a couple of days, but it feels like they’ve been inching up to this moment forever. 

He leans in again and lets his fingers trail down the length of Freddie's neck. He can feel the pulse hammering away under his fingers, matching his own. Freddie's so sensitive, so responsive to Roger's touch and it overwhelms him with all the things he wants to do. He wants to catalogue every sound, commit every expression and every gesture to memory.

The kiss starts out soft, careful even, but then Freddie's sultry upper lip (which has been driving him crazy for days) ends up between his lips and Roger sucks it into his mouth and Freddie groans and lets his mouth fall open and…

It gets messy fast. Freddie's hands are tangled in Roger's hair and he clutches at him as if he forgot how to let go. Roger is pressed into his seat by the whole weight of Freddie’s body and all he can do for the moment is bear the onslaught and let Freddie take his fill.

Because it's like a valve has been released. Freddie's tongue is in his mouth and he's making those urgent tiny noises, like he just can't hold them in. It's rough and wild and messy and has Roger straining in his trousers although they barely got started.

It takes him a frustratingly long time to navigate through all the layers of Freddie's clothing. When his fingers finally reach bare skin, he lets them trail down the side of Freddie's back, and Freddie groans and twists his mouth away. He buries his face against Roger's neck. "Oh God", he pants. "Oh my God."

Roger repeats the movement on the other side and this time the sound that tears itself from Freddie's throat sounds suspiciously like a sob, but he's also mouthing hot, wet kisses against Roger's pulse point so it can't be all bad.

"God, you..." Freddie is speaking directly into Roger's skin, sending shivers all over him. "You're so..." Freddie pulls back and stares at Roger, his expression so torn between arousal and anguish that Roger just wants to hold him close forever and also tear all his clothes off and get him off so spectacularly he forgets anyone else even exists.

But Freddie's back to kissing him deeply, yanking at Roger’s clothes in a desperate attempt to get closer. It's immensely arousing, but it's not going to get them anywhere - and also, the more pragmatic part of his mind reminds him, Roger can't afford to have his clothes torn. He enjoys that fantasy for a couple of seconds, buttons flying and seams ripping in the throes of passion, Freddie's mouth descending on him in single minded determination as he is finally freed from his trousers...

Roger catches Freddie's hands in his and slows the kiss to a soft slide of lips, the occasional flicker of a tongue.

"Sorry", Freddie breathes. "Sorry, I…"

"Shh."

"…making a right mess of this."

Roger can practically hear him berating himself in his mind and it's intolerable.

"You're not", he says and runs his nose along the shell of Freddie's ear. "You're very passionate. I like it."

"I'll hold back", Freddie promises, his cheeks burning.

"Don't you dare." It’s the stupidest idea he ever heard. Roger takes hold of Freddie's hips, pulls them closer and pushes up with his own, leaving Freddie in no doubt about what he's doing to him.

Freddie stares at him wide-eyed and when Roger grinds them together again, he lets his head fall against Roger's shoulder and moans against him. They lie like that for a few minutes, just sliding against each other. There’s still all those layers of clothing between them, but it feels too good to stop. Roger’s hand wanders further around until he can dig his fingers into Freddie’s plush bottom and pull him even closer. Freddie's teeth scrape along his neck as a broken curse falls from his lips. 

Roger slowly lets his fingers trail into the waistband of his trousers, egged on by Freddie's hitching breath, his rhythmically moving hips. His fingers slide deeper, curving inwards until they dip just between Freddie’s cheeks. 

Freddie flinches back, sucking in a sharp breath.

"Yeah, right", Roger pants against Freddie's neck, pressing a quick kiss there. He takes his hand out of the trouser and pats Freddie’s bum a little wistfully. Got a bit ahead of himself there. "We're ill prepared for that."

Instead he brings his hand around to the front of Freddie's trousers, feeling the hard length. Freddie pushes into him, so eager. "You like that", Roger whispers and closes his hand around it as well as he can through the layers.

"Rog, I, oh." He pushes down hard and moans into Roger's neck. It takes Roger a few seconds until he realises what is happening.

He squeezes him a bit tighter, pressing against him. "Freddie", he whispers.

Freddie stills and drops his head onto Roger's shoulder, breathing heavily against his neck. "Sorry, I'm so..."

"Oh god, you..." Roger pushes his own straining erection into Freddie, the knowledge that he just came in his pants from Roger barely touching him is just too much. "You’re driving me crazy!"

"What, I…" Freddie’s still panting and uncoordinated, fingers gripping Roger’s shirt.

"Touch me", Roger groans. "Please, I'm so close, I just..." He can feel his release right there, just inches away, but he can’t get enough friction like that.

Freddie's hand sneaks between their bodies and Roger reaches down to open his trousers. He shoves the fabric aside, pushes down his pants and then Freddie’s beautiful hand is on him, holding him way too delicately. Roger closes his own hand around Freddie’s and squeezes tightly, pushing up at the same time. “Oh yes.”

Freddie’s breath is harsh in his ears, his sweat soaked forehead pressed against his temple. “Like this”, he whispers.

“Like this”, Roger moans and hisses as Freddie’s hand moves on his prick, his palm softer than his own, but the tight grip almost too rough. He turns his head, buries his nose in the mess of Freddie’s hair. “Come on, make me… make me… oh yes.” 

He comes gasping over their joined hands, their clothes, a glorious mess. Roger wraps his arms around Freddie, pulling him into his embrace, as his breathing quiets down.

They can’t stay here long. It’s been stupidly risky to do this here, where there’s sure to be crew members patrolling every now and then to make sure the cargo is alright. But maybe they only could have done this here, far away from Freddie’s family and all the trappings of his ordinary life. 

Just a few minutes, he promises himself. Just a few minutes feeling Freddie’s breath against his own chest before they clean up the mess and head back into the real world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, the car:  
> 
> 
> It really existed, originally belonging to Mr William Carter of Pennsylvania. He and his family survived the sinkining, but of course the car went down with the ship. 
> 
> You can watch the car scene as it played out in the movie [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LaENSMIx4XM)
> 
> BTW: I post about updates on [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/quirkysubject), so if any of you without AO3 accounts want to follow me there, feel free 😊


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Soundtrack:**  
>  White Star Orchestra - [Glow-Worm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TF0zJEsuPw&list=OLAK5uy_nfZIAA84F3m7KMklNjsXs98KsoWyG9xmk&index=5) & [Mon Coeur S'Ouvre A Ta Voix](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mq94-ZdRfFg&list=OLAK5uy_nfZIAA84F3m7KMklNjsXs98KsoWyG9xmk&index=4)
> 
> As always, kudos to my trusty betas [emma_and_orlando](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/pseuds/emma_and_orlando) and [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally).

#### Sunday, 14 April 1912

##### 12pm, First Class Dining Saloon

"You look like a ghost." Kash throws him a poignant glance as she drapes the napkin over her lap. 

Freddie ignores her and takes a bite of his Text with Creator's Style turned off. He can't decide whether he welcomes the hearty taste or resents it. Still, he tucks in. The tea might wake him up a bit, but he needs something more substantial after the... the exertions the night before. And the exertions to come. He fingers the note in his jacket pocket and purses his lips to keep his face from breaking into an embarrassed grin

"A _happy_ ghost, mind you."

Freddie stops in his tracks. He pulls his hand out of his pocket and looks up sharply at Kash. She has her chin propped up on her fingers and her eyebrows raised. Cursed be the sharp-eyed women he is travelling with. Apparently it's his destiny to be interrogated by one of them every day on this journey. At least they take turns. He'd be lost like Varro at Cannae if they ever tried a pincer movement. 

Kash chews thoughtfully on a bite of roast beef. "I really must be missing something on these third-class bashes." 

_Roger’s hands on his face, his hips. Their bodies writhing against each other in unspeakable bliss. His hand on Roger’s..._

Freddie digs his fingers sharply into his thigh to quench those memories. "How do you know about that?" He hadn’t told Kash about the party, and ma wouldn’t have said anything to her either.

"Oh, Cy wasn't too happy about it. He complained about it at dinner last night." She takes a meaningful sip of her wine. "Where you abandoned me with him. Again. Like a cad."

Freddie grimaces. "Apologies, Kash. Sometimes I just cannot stand it."

"Him, you mean.”

Freddie can only shrug. All day, Cy had been bragging about some diamond deal he’d made over brandies the other night, every word dripping with condescension at Freddie’s lack of business acumen. He had been insufferable. It had been more than enough to drive him to seek out Roger at any rate. 

“Dinner was fine, actually. Mrs Brown was on fire, one anecdote after the next, getting more inappropriate as the night went on. But even Ma had to smile at some of the more outrageous ones.”

As Kash retells one of the racier anecdotes, Freddie can’t help but reach into his pocket to touch the note again, just to make sure it's still there. 1pm, it says. Another hour to go. Another hour to drive himself spare thinking about what is going to happen then. 

He realises he's not really contributing anything to this conversation and feels terrible again. He is sitting here with his little sister, for goodness sake. He shouldn’t be thinking about any of this. Of course, he shouldn’t be _doing_ any of this in the first place, but somehow the disgust he should be feeling doesn’t come. 

Freddie clears his throat. "Are you horribly bored here?"

Kash considers that for a moment, then shakes her head. "The gossip isn't half bad. And I've got a lot of time to work on my designs. Although I long to see a proper tree again. The ocean is very impressive and all, but after a while..."

"I know what you mean." He feels bad for her. She's just as lonely as he is, but at least they used to be in it together. Now he's running off with Roger all the time. He should invite her to come along, for a game of poker perhaps, she’d enjoy that... But then he'd have to be on good behaviour again. And the best thing about being with Roger, apart from the fact that he's with Roger, is that he doesn't have to behave. 

Also, there's a part of him that wants the two of them as far apart as possible. He saw the way Roger looked at her, how she blushed at his compliments.

And, of course, if he takes her along, certain things won’t be possible at all. 

Again, his fingers touch the small piece of paper in his jacket pocket. It had been on his desk when he woke up, in a sealed envelope. Seeing the scrawling cursive on the cheap paper had been enough to set his heart ablaze.

_He can still smell Roger’s scent on his skin as he sits down at the piano, hands flying over the keys without conscious thought. The words pour from his lips, dripping like honey into the gaps between the notes. The fabric of his drawers catches on his skin, tacky and still slightly wet. It should be disgusting, a lasting reminder of his disgrace, something that has him running to the bathroom to cleanse himself of that pollution. But all it does is send the ghost of Roger’s touch over his skin again, making him shiver deep inside._

_Taking his breath away._

"...a word I've been saying, have you, Freddie?"

"Uhm." Freddie pinches the bridge of his nose and forces his mind back into the present. "So sorry, Kash. It's been a long night."

"Mhm. With Roger." She grins knowingly. "Boys always get to have all the fun. All I could get was a party of Bridge with Mrs Candee and Lady Ashton."

Freddie takes a long drink from his water glass to regain some of his composure. "Actually, we played card games as well, so it wasn't all that different." In fact, his night couldn't have been more different from hers. What does it say about him that he doesn’t even blush at this bald-faced lie?

She makes a face. "Oh, I'm sure."

Freddie fiddles with his napkin. She's not implying anything worse than that Roger is a lot more fun to be around than a pair of middle-aged ladies. But still, he knows how well she can read him. 

"Freddie." She reaches over the table and pats his hand. "I'm glad you've found a friend."

He returns the smile and gives her hand a little squeeze. " _Another_ friend." 

Both of which are going to leave him at the end of the journey.

~~~

Freddie nervously checks the writing on the note. E 116. It's the right cabin, located at the end of a hallway that seems barely used. He hasn't dared to ask someone for directions, so he's made his way to the E-deck and wandered the labyrinthine hallways for a good 10 minutes, until he finally found the right number. 

He stands in front of the plain white door, fiddling with the card. After the run-in with Major Gracie the night before, Freddie can’t risk Roger being seen around his suite too often. Roger had promised to figure something out before he had released him with one last kiss. Freddie has no idea how he made it back to his suite afterwards. 

Freddie checks and rechecks the number on the door. He wants nothing more than to step inside and be swept up in Roger's arms. He's also scared out of his wits by what that might mean.

Roger must have written off Freddie's dismal performance as over-excitement at the tension between them finally breaking, but now he’ll expect something more. Freddie will have to step up his game, only he has no idea how to do that. How can he, when the sight of a piece of paper promising things to come is enough to reduce him to a shivery, distracted mess?

Three more days. That’s all he has got. 

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

The door opens. Roger is in his steward's uniform with a stack of White Star towels in his arms. It suits him. Of _course_ it does. At the sight of Freddie, his blank, officious expression melts away. When Freddie doesn't move, he takes his arm and yanks him inside. "For heaven's sake, will you come in."

The door shuts behind him. Roger locks it and wedges a chair under the handle for good measure.

The room is furnished, but there are none of the small amenities that give the first-class cabins their comfortable atmosphere - no flowers, no sheets on the bed, no tablecloths. It looks bare and cold in the brightness of the overhead light.

It feels like a hideout. Looking at this room, there is no denying the hard truth of what they are doing. Hiding away from daylight like a pair of common criminals. 

Because that's what they are. 

He didn't feel dirty last night. He does now.

Roger must have noticed his expression. "Not first class", he says with an apologetic shrug, "but we won't be disturbed here. And don't you worry, I'll pretty it up a bit." With a wink, he reaches into a small canvas bag and retrieves several items: a bunch of candle stubs, a small glass bottle, a box of matches. He opens the large wardrobe at the other end of the room and pulls out a couple of blankets, tossing them on the bed.

Not wanting to look ungrateful after Roger went to all the trouble of locating this cabin, Freddie walks over to the bed to pick up the candles. He takes up the bottle as well, inspecting it. Macassar oil. Hair oil. He uses it himself sometimes, but Roger obviously doesn't. So what on earth does Roger need…

_“We’re ill-prepared for that.”_

His stomach drops. Oh no, not that. The anxiety that's been on the back of his mind races to the forefront. It's incongruous to associate Roger, who is light and joy, with something violent and vile.

But he _had_ touched him there. 

There’s a lump in his throat as he turns his head to observe Roger. He looks completely unconcerned, humming a tune under his breath as he picks up some candles and arranges them on the dresser. Freddie quickly puts the bottle down before Roger can see. He jumps as Roger swats his backside when he breezes by to pick up the matches. It's feathery light, but the jolt it sends through him is just too much.

"Sorry", Roger says and smoothes his hand down gently over the same spot with a grin so cheerful that Freddie feels the corners of his mouth pull up automatically in response. Roger leans in a bit closer and whispers. "Just can't keep my hands off you. Been thinking about you every waking second."

And then he snatches up the matches and twirls away as if he hasn't just shattered Freddie's composure within all of ten seconds.

As soon as the first candles are flickering, Roger switches off the overhead light. "There", he says.

There is no big transformation, but the warm, flickering light of the candles makes the room look a little less sterile and uninviting.

"How did you find this place", Freddie asks.

Roger grins cheekily and points at the uniform. "This gets you anywhere."

Of course, that only raises the question of where Roger got the uniform from in the first place. Freddie's quite sure that White Star Line doesn't run a rental service.

"The ship's only two thirds full", Roger explains while nonchalantly shrugging out of the jacket and unbuttoning his shirtsleeves. 

All thoughts of what Roger might expect of him fly right out of the window. The sight of Roger Taylor casually undressing himself in front of him - even if all that is visible are his slim wrists - replaces everything else. He wants this. God, he _wants_ it so much he'll do whatever it takes to keep it. Even if it means...

"Lots of empty cabins”, Roger goes on. “It's a paradise for all sorts of deviant activities."

Freddie turns away and takes a deep, shuddering breath. It's all too much, but he doesn't want to miss any of it even a little bit. 

_Deviant_. 

The word sends a shudder through him. All his life he’s been running from that word. Now all it does is draw him in closer. He doesn't think there is any word that couldn't be made to sound enticing when it comes from Roger's lips. He'll do anything, he realises hopelessly. Anything he asks.

There are footsteps behind him, then light hands land on his waist. Roger's nose nudges the back of his neck, his breath ghosting over Freddie’s skin. A hot and cold shiver goes through him, working its way to his core.

Does Roger have any idea what he’s doing to him? 

He closes his eyes and bends his head slightly. Roger takes the invitation without a second thought. He bites down lightly, holding the skin between his teeth. It's all Freddie can do to stay on his feet. Only three points of contact and he's prepared to throw away everything he's ever held dear and lay his life at this man's feet.

Roger gentles his mouth into small kisses. God, that salty ocean scent will be the death of him. How is he ever going to live without... he ruthlessly pushes the thought aside. Here and now, that is all. Here and now.

Hands sneak up his sides to take off his jacket. His braces are pushed off his shoulders and his trousers settle low on his hips. The fabric pulls against his crotch and Freddie realises with horror and delight that he is hard already.

Deviant.

Roger's hands slide a little lower, to settle on Freddie’s hips. His fingers dig in just a bit. He pulls Freddie flush against him, and oh God, Freddie can feel how affected he is. The hard bulge feels marvellous where it’s grinding into his behind, but it's also a reminder of where this is all heading eventually and his throat tightens as his eyes wander to the small bottle on the table.

It's terrifying that he can’t tell how far he will actually take this. Although now that he's here, now that he's essentially offered himself up, he can hardly pull back, can he?

Roger's hands are wandering lazily all over the front of his body, his chest, his stomach, the tops of his thighs, sending goosebumps all over him. 

No, Freddie realises, there is no way he’s going to ask him to stop as long as he keeps touching him like this.

Again he eyes the bottle on the dresser, his heart thundering away in his chest. He'll get through it. Somehow. 

Roger's hands are still low on his belly, so close to where Freddie needs them. Roger turns his head so his cheek is lying on top of Freddie’s shoulder. It takes Freddie a couple of seconds to realise that Roger is following his line of sight.

"You can have me if you like", Roger whispers in a low, husky voice so close to his ear that it sends tingles all over Freddie’s neck. "But I'm thinking..." He presses his hardness a bit more into Freddie. "I'm thinking maybe you like it better this way, hm?"

Freddie freezes. Here it is. It's terrifying. He can agree or he can lose that touch that is becoming as important to him as air itself. 

_You can have me if you like._

No. No, he's not going to do that to him. 

"Yes. Yes, of course, whatever you-" He clenches his teeth together and swallows hard. His throat is suddenly parched.

"Freddie?"

Roger is pulling away. He's noticed something is wrong and he's pulling away and Freddie is going to lose him. He holds on tightly to Roger's arm.

"It's alright", he croaks.

There's a minute hesitation, but then Roger relaxes again. "Alright", he says and presses a kiss into the crook of Freddie's neck. Then, before Freddie can react, he's taken a step aside and thrown himself onto the bed holding out his arms like he's just waiting for Freddie to jump in after him. Freddie tries to match his smile, his enthusiasm and sits down next to him. He looks so beautiful in the candlelight.

Roger reaches out and pulls him down into a kiss - how could Freddie already have forgotten how devastating those kisses are? - deftly unbuttoning his shirt. 

He wants Freddie. If there's one thing that's clear, for some reason this man who could have anyone, wants Freddie and for that alone Freddie would follow him to the ends of the earth. 

He tries to relax into it, to follow the subtle rhythm of Roger kiss and lose himself in the paths his fingertips are searing into his skin. But then one hand glides over his backside again and he remembers where this is going, the price he's going to have to pay for all this.

"What's wrong?"

And now Roger has noticed and he's stopped kissing him and his hands have stilled. 

"Nothing", Freddie mumbles and tries to entice Roger into kissing him again, but he's only indulged for a few seconds.

"You..." Roger clears his throat. "You've done this before, right?"

"Done what?" Freddie asks stupidly.

Roger shuffles up onto his elbows until he can peer at Freddie with those eyes that are sharp despite their weakness. Then he nods at the jar on the dresser. "This."

Heat blooms in Freddie’s face, his chest, his ears and he can't look at Roger any longer, so he drops his gaze to the mattress. He shakes his head. He's all but told Roger yesterday in the car, hasn't he? Is it possible he misunderstood what he had been saying?

"And this?" Roger asks in a soft voice as he moves a hand between them.

"Once", he says. He realises this can be misunderstood and hesitates a second before he adds: "Not twenty-four hours ago."

"Oh."

Freddie sits up and looks away. He's gone and done it again, thrown away the one good thing in his life because he can't just shut up and keep a stiff upper lip and take it.

The bed creaks and a light hand lands on his upper back, fingers playing with the skin just above his collar. It feels heavenly. Why isn't there a way to preserve sensations as in photographs or phonograph recordings? 

"Not even with women?"

God, how many more embarrassing things will Roger make him confess?

Freddie takes a deep breath. "On my eighteenth birthday. A cousin took me to... to see a woman." A girl, barely older than him in years, but beyond him in any other way.

"Goodness." Roger doesn't sound disgusted or like he is pitying him, but mildly interested. "How was it?"

Freddie shrugs. "Nice." That's the cross total of revolting and ecstatic, disgusting and heavenly, isn't it? 

Roger snorts and Freddie wants to curl in on himself. "No. Oh no, hey." He tugs on Freddie's arm and Freddie folds down into him. Roger draws Freddie close and drops a kiss into his hair. "I just assumed that... well, I know some people who went to posh schools and I just didn't think someone looking like you would come out of it an innocent."

Every muscle in Freddie's body tenses. "Did you."

"Yes, I... oh." Freddie can feel Roger's heart picking up under his cheek, his arms tightening around him. "Freddie..."

And now he's thinking that Freddie is not just inexperienced, but damaged goods on top of that. "Not that", he protests. "Not _me_. But a friend." 

His only friend. He'd lasted another half a year after that and then he’d been taken away and Freddie had never heard from him again. But he'll never forget his terrified eyes when he had limped back into the dorm that night, the blood running down his legs so far it stained the tops of his stockings. How he hadn't said a word except to make Freddie promise not to tell a soul.

"Ah, bloody hell." Roger's hands are stroking over his arms, comforting, calming.

He doesn't want comfort, he doesn't want calm. He wants to revel in the glory and the brightness that is Roger's smile, tremble under his hands, sink into his kiss. But he's not going to want to do that with him now and even if he does, Freddie has no idea how to get there now that he has spoiled the mood so thoroughly. 

"What do you want", Roger asks after a while.

Freddie shrugs helplessly, not trusting his voice. He wants to make Roger feel good. Give him the tiniest taste of how he makes Freddie feel. Make up for his complete uselessness the night before. He wants to touch and he wants to see.

"We can just lie here like this for a while", Roger says. "It's quite lovely." He runs his fingers through Freddie's hair and surely this isn't allowed to feel as good as it does.

Freddie starts to move his fingers, which are on Roger's knee, stroking them back and forth, slowing wandering upwards in meandering patterns. Roger sucks in a breath when Freddie comes close to the crease of his thigh.

"Or that. We can do that, too. That's fine with me." He definitely sounds a bit breathless.

Freddie has to grin. He breathes in deeply, revelling in the scent of salt and tobacco and the warm skin just underneath that shirt. He still doesn't know what he's doing, but he _cares_ and hopefully that counts for something.

He looks up at Roger.

"Go on then", Roger says. "Let's see if we can do better than 'nice'."

"We already did", Freddie says, then freezes. Yesterday night might have been the pinnacle of his erotic experience, but that doesn't mean it would have been the same for Roger. No, surely it wouldn’t have been. He must have had dozens of lovers, of each sex, each one more skilful and beautiful that Freddie could ever aspire to be.

"Hmm, and I can't wait to do it again." Roger wriggles his hips in a way that has the side of Freddie's hand brushing against the hardness in his trousers. And he's still grinning at Freddie, completely unabashed.

Shameless. 

It should be an insult. Surely it shouldn’t sound like an aspiration?

Despite himself, Freddie's eyes wander to the bottle again.

With one swift move, Roger reaches for it. Freddie’s heart rate speeds up, but all Roger does is throw it in the bedside drawer, slamming it shut. "And forget about that." 

He lies back down on the bed, taking Freddie's hand in his and planting a kiss against his fingers. Then he lets go and puts his folded hands behind his head. He raises his eyebrows at Freddie in invitation.

There's so much Freddie wants to do it's momentarily overwhelming. His fingertips are tingling from when Roger had kissed them and he wants to feel it again, on his other hand too, on every single part of his body. He wants to taste Roger's golden skin, bury his fingers in his hair, be led astray by his skilful kisses. And then there's the matter of that bulge in his trousers, which he barely dares to look at. 

"In your own time", Roger says, a sentence which clearly means the exact opposite of what it says on the surface.

Challenged like that, Freddie reaches out and opens the topmost button on Roger's shirt. "I haven't even got to see you properly yet", Freddie mumbles as he makes quick work of the other buttons. "It's most unfair."

He tugs the shirt out of Roger's trousers and pulls it open. His chest is almost hairless and although he’s thin there's a certain softness to him, so different from Freddie's bony frame. Freddie runs his hand over his stomach upwards to his chest. He can feel every breath Roger takes, his gasp when Freddie gets too close to his ribs. The sound draws Freddie's gaze up to Roger's mouth, which is open, his tongue just visible between his white teeth.

He leans down until their lips touch. Slowly, he pushes and prods with his lips and tongue, trying to recall all the things Roger did the other night that felt so heavenly. He slides one hand into Roger' hair, which is full and soft, and he relishes in all those sensations he was too overwhelmed to appreciate the night before. Roger's taste on his tongue. Roger's scent in his nose. Roger's shivery breaths in his ears.

He draws back before it all becomes too much. He runs his fingers over Roger's cheek while trying to get his bearings, their foreheads pressed together. 

"Freddie?" When he opens his eyes, Roger moves his hands from behind his head and puts them on Freddie's face, holding him steady. "Get me out of these clothes? Please?"

Right, that was the plan, wasn't it? Before he can think too much about it, he's urging Roger up so he can slip the shirt off his shoulders. Then his fingers find their way to Roger's trouser fastenings. When he grips the waistband to tug them down - Roger helpfully raising his hips - he realises that he's caught the waistband of his drawers as well. 

In for a penny. He keeps his focus and his eyes on the clothes as he pulls them down Roger's legs, making short work of his shoes and socks in the process.

He watches as Roger rubs his feet together. They're nice feet. Not as long as his own, high arches, nicely proportioned toes. Some sparse blond hair on his big toes.

"You can look, you know."

For a second Freddie hates him for knowing him so well. For being so bloody unflappable all the time.

"Can I have a drawing pad", Freddie asks and runs a finger over the arch of Roger's foot.

"Damn, I knew I forgot to bring something."

Freddie smiles despite himself. He puts both hands on Roger's ankles and slowly runs them up over his calves. The coarse hair on his legs crackles under his fingers. He watches as the pressure of his fingertips makes little dents in the skin. Feels bony knees give way to strong thighs.

And then he's there, his hands stopping just an inch or so from Roger's… from his prick. It's lying heavy in the crease of his thigh, a bit shorter and thicker than Freddie's. He's had his hands on him the night before, but he barely remembers any of it in the rush and there hadn’t been a chance to see. Now he can look his fill. At the vein running up along it. At the sparse hair surrounding it, darker and curlier than that on Roger's head. At the tip that is peaking out shiny and promising from under the foreskin. At the testicles almost hidden between Roger's legs.

It all looks so... so natural. So unremarkable yet enticing. A body part, as normal as Roger's lips, his ears, his hands. Both ordinary and beautiful. Belonging right there.

He reaches out to run a hand along the length. Roger sucks in a sharp breath and Freddie smiles to himself. Maybe not _completely_ unflappable. 

Or maybe he just woke up after having fallen asleep during Freddie's musings.

The skin is so fine and smooth under his fingertips. He does it again and to his astonishment, he can feel the difference it makes as it hardens under his caress.

There's a muffled groan and with the evidence of his success so palpable, Freddie dares to look up. Roger's got one hand on his forehead and the other over his mouth, biting the base of his thumb.

"Show me how to make you feel good", Freddie whispers.

Roger takes his hand away from his mouth and laughs, a bit breathless. "Doing fine."

"I want to do better."

"Freddie." Roger waits until he’s got Freddie’s full attention. "I could probably get off just from you looking at me like you just did, I..." He lets his head fall back and squeezes his eyes shut. "God, if you want me to tell you what to do, I will, once I've decided between the 56 scenarios running through my head right now. But what I really want." He takes a deep breath and looks at Freddie again. "What I _really_ want is to see what you're going to do. With your beautiful creative mind. And your beautiful talented fingers. Your beautiful... your _illegally_ beautiful mouth."

Roger's words set off a cascade of fantasies in Freddie's mind, each one more debauched than the other. Roger is thinking about his fingers, his mouth, he calls them beautiful and he's so utterly wanton in spelling out his desires. Freddie doesn't know _how_ he does it without imploding from embarrassment, but he wants a slice of that.

"Hell, your beautiful, perfect hair even”, Roger continues, “or your… your _elbows_ , I bet you could... oh, Jesus Christ!"

Roger’s shout must be audible two decks up, but right now Freddie cannot bring himself to care, because the tip of Roger's prick is in his mouth and it's becoming impossibly thicker by the second. He doesn't know what to do next, but maybe he doesn't _have_ to do anything? But he cannot just hold it in his mouth, can he? The taste is sharp and kind of dark, like the skin on Roger's neck but with an added minor seventh.

"Give me your hand", Roger whispers.

Freddie does, and Roger brings it to his prick, wrapping Freddie’s fingers around the base. "This is all up to you, you know", Roger says. "But if at any time you maybe want to move, or, or, suck on it a bit, or... yes, just like that!"

The response is so eager that Freddie immediately does it again, so enthusiastically this time that he accidentally slips off.

"... or swirl your tongue around the top maybe..."

He does that too and out of the corner of his eye he can observe Roger’s nails digging into his thigh. He is suddenly aware that he is still wearing all of his clothes, his own member cruelly neglected. But this is more important. He'll gladly forego his own pleasure if it means Roger keeps up his steady stream of lewd suggestions and encouragements. Only he's not forgoing anything, because this is its own kind of pleasure, knowing he is - however inexpertly - the one doing this to Roger.

Freddie takes him into his mouth again, trying to combine the sucking and the swirling of his tongue, which doesn't really work, but Roger's making a lot of incoherent noises right now and the taste has intensified with a slightly acidic note so it cannot be completely bad and...

"Don't stop, please, don't stop, oh, please, Freddie..."

Roger's fingers have closed around Freddie’s now, increasing the pressure on his prick, making Freddie grip him harder than he would have dared and then Roger groans loudly and suddenly there's a lot of… it’s salty and bitter and the texture is absolutely revolting. Freddie pulls off and turns his head away, only to have the last bit land on his cheek. He's not an idiot, he knows what this is and that it was bound to happen, but it was so sudden, so shockingly sudden. So _rude_. 

He wipes his face with his hand and looks up at Roger to see what he's got to say for himself.

"Sorry", says Roger. He's panting and has got one hand buried in his hair. He raises his head to look at Freddie. "I probably shouldn't have... oh God, look at you." 

Right next to Freddie’s face, Roger’s spent prick gives another little twitch and a tiny droplet of fluid wells up again. Freddie eyes it suspiciously.

"You're just too much", Roger laughs and reaches down to caress Freddie's lips. 

It's then that Freddie's own neglected anatomy makes itself known with a dull, sweet ache. Suddenly, the bitter taste in his mouth isn't all that bad anymore. 

"Come here." Roger moves up on the bed so he can sit up against the headboard, while Freddie finds himself being manhandled to sit between Roger's legs. Roger’s arms come up around him, chin resting on Freddie’s shoulder so that Freddie is completely surrounded by him. He can feel the wet pressure of Roger’s spent prick against the small of his back, ruining his shirt. Freddie doesn’t even mind. 

Nimble fingers are unfastening his trousers, but before Freddie can concentrate on it, a hand is pressing against his cheek, gently turning his head. Roger’s lips descend on his, and his tongue licks inside although just a minute ago, Freddie’s mouth had been… it must still taste of… Freddie feels dizzy at how wrong this all is, how filthy. 

How shameless.

The tightness of his trousers is replaced by the tightness of Roger’s hand. His palm is rougher than Freddie’s, his hand a bit smaller, but it fits perfectly around him. He moves quickly and with confidence, the way he must be doing it himself when… Freddie twists his head away and lets it fall back on Roger’s shoulder with a groan. It’s too loud in the quiet of the room, but Roger just chuckles into his ear and grips him tighter. “Oh yes.”

Freddie’s hands are gripping his trousers, clenching and unclenching as his muscles contract and relax, winding him up tighter and tighter. 

“You are incredible like this”, Roger whispers, so close to his ear that his lips touch the shell. 

“Oh. Oh my…” 

“Do you want it like this”, Roger asks and it takes Freddie embarrassingly long to realise he’s been asked a question. “Because I could…”

“Yes”, he gasps, because the last thing he wants is for Roger to stop. “Yes, please.”

Roger huffs out a breath that has Freddie writhing in his arms. Close, he’s so close. "One of these days”, Roger whispers and the words are as arousing as the hands working Freddie’s prick. “One of these days, I’m going to lay you out on sheets of silk, as you deserve.”

Roger turns his head away, and Freddie can’t have that. His right hand flies up, reaching for Roger’s hair and pressing his head close to his own again, just to feel the connection of his breath again. That alone might be enough to undo him. 

“Oh you…” Roger takes a deep shuddering breath. “All the things I want to do to you. Can you imagine?”

He can’t, he can’t possibly imagine, but he wants it all. 

“I’m going to make you feel so good”, Roger whispers as everything draws up tightly within Freddie. Roger’s voice drops lower as his teeth catch on Freddie’s earlobe. “I want to make you lose your fucking mind."

~~~

Freddie must have drifted off in the afterglow, because when he next opens his eyes, Roger is putting out candles, hopping on one leg as he pulls on his socks. He’s in his everyday clothes now, the uniform nowhere to be seen. He probably put it in his bag. 

Roger perks up when he sees Freddie awake. “Ah, good”, he says, tapping Freddie's leg. "Come on, get dressed."

Alarmed, Freddie sits up. "What? Why?” What's happening? Is someone coming?

But Roger looks completely at ease. "We've got another date."

"A _date_?"

"Yup." Roger haphazardly tosses clothes in Freddie’s direction. 

This is the moment when everything should turn awkward and embarrassing. The overhead light is back on and Freddie is lying naked on the bed, the linens filthy with both their emissions. But Roger’s words and enterprising behaviour pique his curiosity, taking his mind off the situation for the moment. 

"What kind of..." Freddie winces as he tries to thread his arm into the shirt sleeve. His shoulder is still twinging from two nights ago when he moves carelessly. "What date?"

Roger comes over and holds the shirt open for him so he can put it on. "Alright there?"

Freddie nods. "It's just… that infernal boxing match."

"Serves you right", Roger grumbles, but he strokes a hand over his back. "I can massage it later, if you like."

"You know how to give massages?" It shouldn’t surprise him.

Roger just shrugs. "Come on now, Brian hates it when I'm late."

"Come one _where_?" Freddie crosses his arms and glares at Roger. His excitement is as charming as ever, but Freddie doesn’t like being left in the dark. 

Roger puts his cap on his head and turns to him with an open smile that is impossible to resist. With a sinking feeling, Freddie realises that he is going to follow Roger, no matter what harebrained scheme he thought up. 

"We are going to make some music!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a first-class lunch menu from that day. It sold at action for almost 90.000$ a couple of years ago.  
> 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Soundtrack**  
>  Joan Morris & William Bolcom - [Shine On Harvest Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmKV3DzOVPo) (modern recording)  
> Scott Joplin - [Maple Leaf Rag](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMAtL7n_-rc)
> 
> As always, thanks go to my betas, [emma_and_orlando](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/pseuds/emma_and_orlando) and [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally). Additional thanks to [Plainxte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainxte/pseuds/Plainxte) for reading an early draft of the music bit and to [guiltypleasurefandomface](https://guiltypleasurefandomface.tumblr.com/) for answering my tricky britpicking questions.

##### 2.30pm, E-deck

Roger has always liked sex: It’s one of those easy pleasures that life holds for those who welcome it. Not just because it feels great, but also because of the pleasure he can give to others. To hear their breathless moans and whispered encouragements, see their eyes grow dark and bodies twist in passion, taste their arousal on his tongue.

He knows there can be a darker side to it, of course. He's not completely blind to the grim sides of life, but somehow he never thought it would affect him. 

As they make their way down the corridor, Roger is fighting the urge to take Freddie’s hand. Not only because it’s like some vital part of his body is missing anytime they're not touching. He also feels unreasonably protective of this man who - given his money and his connections - could probably squash him like a beetle if he chose to. 

He had noticed how nervous Freddie had been when he suggested it. But Freddie had always been nervous when they got close. Not when they were actually doing it, but the moments before, when tension lay thick in the air. And what with him being locked up with a bunch of prigs most of the time, it was only natural that he needed some time to loosen up. Or perhaps he'd just heard awful stories about it, the same stories Roger had believed before he shacked up with Matthieu, who so obviously loved it that it took Roger all of a week until he was begging him to let him try as well. He might never have developed the Frenchman’s passion for it, but it's something he'd love to have shared with Freddie. 

It doesn't matter though, because what they did instead had been brilliant. Roger has come to love that moment when the intensity of Freddie's desire overcomes his shyness. It has been worth every minute of waiting, every ounce of patience Roger has spent while Freddie gathered his courage.

He’s already thinking about all the things they’re going to do next, getting a bit distracted as they wander around the labyrinthine lower decks of the ship. It might be a marvel of the age, but the floor plan must have been designed by someone who creates mazes in his spare time.

They round a corner and suddenly there’s Brian's lanky form peeking out of a doorway, waving at them.

"Ah, there he his", Roger says and pulls Freddie along by the sleeve of his jacket.

"I'm really not sure this is a good idea", Freddie mutters as he drags his feet.

"Have my ideas ever disappointed you?" Roger lowers his voice just the tiniest bit. It’s not overly suggestive, but it’s enough to make Freddie blush bright red. It's incredibly endearing. Oh god, this is so obvious to anyone who has a functioning pair of eyes. Roger would ask Freddie to tone it down, but he’s pretty sure that’s only going to make it worse. "Come on."

"You're late", Brian complains as he closes the door behind them with a thud that makes Freddie startle. Roger just barely tamps down his reflex to put a calming hand on his back. 

"Jesus Bri, what's the matter with..." Roger trails off as he realises there’s another person in the room.

"Hello, Taylor." Deacon smirks at him and then adds a sarcastic "Your Grace" in Freddie's direction.

"What's he doing here?" Roger automatically comes to stand between Deacon and Freddie. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares at Brian. What the hell had he been thinking? 

"He found us the room.” Brian points at the portable piano in the corner. "And he's a crack at the guitar. Great sense of rhythm."

"But that's not... _I_ can play the guitar.” Alright, he can strum three chords, but that’s always been more than enough. “And you too. We don’t need a..."

"Double bass, too", Deacon says. "And the banjo."

“And he’s actually got a guitar”, Brian says. “In contrast to you and me.”

"He beat up Freddie", Roger hisses.

"He certainly did not ‘beat me up’", Freddie protests.

Brian looks at Roger incredulously, hands on his hips. "Freddie knocked him out cold."

This time it's Deacon who gets up to protest. "He did not! He cheated and then..."

"You", Roger wheels around and points his finger at him, "Shut up!"

Deacon’s expression darkens. "Did you just tell me to shut up?"

"Yeah, and yet I can still hear you talking. Words too big?"

"Roger, come on." Roger shakes off Brian's hand. It's been a brilliant day so far, and he and Brian and Freddie could be brilliant together, so what's this git doing here?

With pointed calmness, Deacon starts rolling up his sleeves. "Mouth too big, more like."

Roger starts towards him. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do once he’s reached him - he’s well aware that Deacon could wipe the floor with him - but that doesn’t matter. Brian will figure something out. It’s all his fault anyway. "I will show you exactly how big..."

"Gentlemen, please." Before Roger can close the distance, Freddie has insinuated himself between them, holding out his arms. "It was an honourable fight with a, a _lucky_ outcome. There's no need to hold grudges, is there?"

"I'm not holding a grudge", Deacon says. "But this one needs to learn some manners."

"Ah, manners!" Freddie claps his hands together and looks like this whole situation is just delightful. What on earth is he playing at? He's behaving like a character in a comedy vaudeville. "That's where I come into play." He clears his throat. "Roger, this is Mr John Deacon, who has got an excellent cross hand and - apparently - plays the double bass, guitar and banjo. Mr Deacon, this is Roger Taylor, a man of many talents." He steps back, looking very pleased with himself, and motions at them to shake hands.

Roger glares at Deacon. There is a part of him that realises he's being a bit ridiculous. It was Freddie who had started the whole boxing thing after all, and John had probably saved him from getting completely mauled by the giant coal trimmer. 

Still. He was not invited.

But Freddie keeps looking at him expectantly, so Roger swallows his pride and extends a hand. Deacon just looks at him for a moment. If he doesn't take his hand, Roger is going to sock him, no matter the consequences.

But then Deacon huffs out a gruff laugh and takes Roger’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Roger bares his teeth in something that he might just pass as a smile and squeezes back. Before the whole thing can escalate, Freddie swoops in again. "Excellent", he exclaims and turns towards Brian. "Now, I don't believe your friend and I have been properly introduced."

So this time, Roger plays host because that kind of thing seems to make Freddie happy. Once the introductions are made, they all stand around a bit awkwardly.

"Right", Brian says, running a hand through his hair, then flattening it down immediately. It does look a bit more unruly than normal. "So. What did you have in mind, Rog?"

What Roger had in mind was having fun with his friends, one old, one new, but that was before Brian decided to bring in other people. "Dunno", he grumbles. "Just thought we'd see what happens." He picks up the tambourine Brian as brought along and drums his fingers against the skin without much enthusiasm. Perhaps this hasn’t been such a great idea. Brian can play properly, and Freddie too, but he is just someone who strikes up at parties when he’s got two or three pints in him already. It’s not like he’s a proper musician or anything. 

He should have stayed in that cabin and shagged Freddie silly. That would have been a good use of his afternoon.

"Can he sing", Brian asks, looking at Freddie.

"Yes."

"No”, Freddie says at the same time, then glares at Roger.

"He's got a lovely voice", Roger says, daring Freddie to disagree. "Bit lower than mine, bit fuller." He looks at Brian, then both of them turn their heads towards Deacon.

"Do you happen to be a bass, by any chance", Brian asks.

Deacon grins and shakes his head. "Can't carry a tune in a bucket." 

Roger sighs. Useless, this guy. There goes the barbershop quartet. He's never actually sung barbershop, but he's used to singing harmonies above Brian. It comes naturally to him. 

"But you three can have a go and I'll give you the base notes on the guitar”, John continues.

"Like a barbershop _trio_?" Roger is skeptical. 

Brian shrugs. "You only need three notes to make a chord."

Roger gets up. Not that he expects much from this, but there’s no use in waiting around. "Lets try _Shine On Harvest Moon_. Brian on lead, Freddie sings baritone."

"Wait." Freddie looks suddenly nervous.

"What? You know the song, right?" He must know it, it's been on everyone's lips last year.

"'Course I know the song."

"Then what's the problem?"

All eyes are on Freddie. He seems to shrink in on himself. "I'm really not that good of a singer. My voice..."

But now everyone is protesting. 

"Come on", Brian says, clapping his back. "It's just a lark anyway", Roger adds and Deacon says "Can't be worse than me", which has Freddie chuckle a little nervously.

They all cluster around Deacon, who has picked up his guitar. Brian sings the first verse of the song alone with his soft, clear voice while Deacon is strumming the chords. For the next verse, Roger joins in a third above Brian. He doesn't really have the voice for this kind of singing - it's too rough and doesn't have enough body. It's much better suited to folksy tunes. But somehow it’s always worked well with Brian's voice.

Which can't be said for Freddie. He just hums along at first, trying to get into it, finding the right notes. It's not easy, improvising a harmony, so Roger's impressed when he starts hitting the right notes, deviating just here and there from the lead initially, but then settling into his own voice. 

But then he really starts to sing and Deacon almost drops his guitar.

"'A bit fuller' than yours", Brian asks, staring alternatively at Roger and Freddie.

"What", Freddie asks, looking around worriedly. "Did I slip into the wrong key?"

"You're supposed to be doing harmony", Roger says. "Not blow us all out of the water."

Freddie cringes. "Alright. I'll... I'll hold back."

They start again, and it works for a while, but as soon as they reach the chorus, Freddie just belts out the notes in his impressive baritone.

"For Goodness’ sake", Brian swears. "This isn't Wagner we're doing here."

But now that he's into it, Freddie's not easily cowed. "Maybe you should just sing a little louder. And John, do try not to be late for the chord change before ‘moon’."

"I wasn't late, you were suddenly racing ahead", Deacon protests. 

“It’s called rubato”, Freddie sniffs.

" _I'm_ providing the rhythm here, you can't just decide to go faster than everyone else whenever you feel like it."

"But you're just going "bam-pah, bam-pah", the same thing all the time, it's so boring. We need a bit of..." Freddie snaps his fingers excitedly, "A bit of zest to make it interesting."

Brian rolls his eyes. "How about we first figure out how to sing the song and then start worrying about how to make it interesting?"

Deacon meanwhile holds out the guitar to Freddie. "You want to do the honours then? Please, go ahead. I'm dying to see you doing it so much better than me."

"I wasn't..."

The metallic rattling of a tambourine shuts the three of them up. Roger lowers it with a flourish. “Stop it, all of you. We're not going to get anywhere like this."

Brian spreads his arms and raises his eyebrows, like he's trying to say 'not my fault, mate'.

Roger turns to Freddie. "How about _you_ sing lead."

"Why..."

"Because he's got the loudest voice, Brian." He narrowly avoids saying ‘best’. Brian can be sensitive. 

"All voices are supposed to be equally loud", Brian grumbles, "that's the point of barbershop."

"Well, sod barbershop then. Maybe that's just not the right thing for us. Like..." He picks up Brian’s fiddle and hands it to him. "Same song. Freddie sings lead, we do the harmonies. You and John accompany us and I", he taps the tambourine against the heel of his hand a couple of times, " _I'll_ keep time." He looks at Freddie to see if there's any resistance. 

But Freddie nods in agreement. "Four bars instrumental, then I sing the verse and you and Brian come in for the chorus", Freddie says matter-of-factly as if he'd never done anything else but arrange bands. It’s an amazing development, considering Roger could barely convince him to come here in the first place.

It takes them a while to synch up, but by the third run-through it all starts coming together. Roger plays around with the tempo, slowing them down for the more romantic lines, then picking up the speed again before it gets too plodding.

Freddie reads his intentions so beautifully, singing every line like he means it. John is constantly checking in with him to keep up and Brian's soft voice and plaintive fiddling knits it all together.

"Well", Brian says, once they've ended, fiddle still pressed against his chest.

"Yup." Roger claps the other three on the back. "Bloody brilliant, I'd say."

Freddie shakes his head. "It still needs a lot of work." But he can barely keep the smile off his face. He looks flushed and loose limbed and completely gorgeous. 

"For what?" John is still holding the guitar in his arms.

"Until we can play a show", Roger says.

The cheerfulness vanishes from Freddie's face. "Don't be silly", he mumbles.

"I'm not." Roger drums his fingers against the rim of the tambourine. "There's the big farewell party Tuesday night before we land. We could play something there."

"Yes." Brian nods slowly. "It's not a lot of time to prepare, but if we rehearse like that every day we might get two or three things done. Nothing fancy, of course."

John nods agreeably, then raises his eyebrows at Freddie, who looks taken aback. "You alright there, Fred?" 

Freddie blinks at the nickname, but then he nods. "Yes", he says, nervously licking his lips. "Yes, that would be... that would be exciting, wouldn't it?"

Roger wants to take his face into his hands and kiss him until he can't breathe properly. Instead, he runs a hand through his own hair and grins widely.

"So, what else can we do", Brian asks. "Freddie, Roger said something about you playing the piano as well?"

Freddie nods. "A bit. But..."

Brian points at the piano standing forgotten in the corner. "How about a rag then?“

~~~

"Oof, I'm starving." Roger throws himself onto a chair and lets his arms dangle at his sides, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. 

"Just one more time", Brain says. "Come on."

"Nope." Roger smiles as Freddie sits down next to him. "My arms are about to fall off and we haven't had anything to eat since breakfast."

"I need a break, too", John says, carefully putting the guitar in its case. 

Brian frowns at them. "Are you going on strike or what?"

"Yup. We're unionized now."

Freddie links his arm with Roger. "We demand sandwiches." 

"Smoked salmon and cucumber", Roger adds. "We're fancy workers."

"Not sure if that's fancy enough, but I could go see one of the Text with Creator's Style turned off about some ham sandwiches."

How could Roger ever have disliked John? The man is brilliant!

Realising that no one else is going to play music for the time being, Brian puts down his violin. An unruly curl of hair falls into his forehead and he mutters a low curse as he pushes it back. He sits down next to Roger, scowling. “Couldn’t find my hair oil”, he grumbles. 

Roger is suddenly very interested in the wood grain pattern of the table. He meant to bring it back before Brian noticed, but then he didn’t want to wake Freddie and he also got a bit distracted and forgot it in the dresser. He doesn't dare look up at Brian. Or at Freddie - god knows what his face is doing right now. 

"I bet you one of those bloody Swedes stole it”, Roger says.

Brian scoffs. "Always knew they were up to no good."

Luckily, just then John returns with a tray of sandwiches. 

"Got to say, you are a very practical person to know", Roger says as he's munching on number three.

"Anywhere else you can get us into? Is there a picture theatre hidden away somewhere?" Freddie is perched on his chair, holding a giant mug of dark brown tea between his fingers as if it were finest china. 

"No, but wouldn’t that be great?" John thinks for a minute. "I can show you the electrical control room and the engineer's workshop."

"Oh, are you an electrical engineer then?" Brian's eyes light up at John's nod. "I imagine that the wiring on a ship like this must be enormously complex. And the sheer amount of energy created by those turbines, it must be..."

"Oh god." Roger lets his head fall back and groans loudly. "Anything _interesting._ ”

Brian glares at Roger. John, who looks like he's been about to launch into a detailed explanation of valves and currents and such, looks a bit wounded.

No wonder the two get along so well.

"There's the swimming pool", John says. "It's part of the baths. But he can go there anyway." He waves a hand at Freddie.

"A swimming pool", Roger asks. "On a _ship_?"

"Yeah. It's salt water, but it's heated. And there's a steam room as well, and a-"

That sounds amazing. "Get us there. Now."

John looks at his watch. "It's the gentlemen's turn right now."

"Okay, so let's go." Roger doesn't get why he's the only one on his feet.

John points at Freddie. "That kind of gentleman."

"Oh."

"First class only, I'm afraid."

Roger sulks for a moment. Then his thoughts take an interesting turn. "Is there a ladies’ hour as well", he asks with a sly grin.

"Roger." Brian's voice has a half-exasperated, half-warning undertone.

"What? Just asking if, you know, everything's fair and square on this ship. Wouldn't want the ladies to go wanting."

"Of course."

Freddie speaks up. "When are the gentlemen done with their turn? Around dinner time, if I remember correctly?"

Roger gapes at him. "You knew about this? You knew about the pool and never told me?"

"Believe me, if you think the conversation in a smoking room is trite, it's nothing compared to that at the baths."

"I don't know what the conversation in a smoking room is like, you bloody toff."

"Like dinner, but more horrible."

Brian clears his throat. "So, John. Is there any chance we might see this swimming pool? Preferably not when it's filled with trite gentlemen or", he glowers at Roger, "ladies?"

"The crew gets to use it for an hour in the evening while it's cooling down. But after that the heating system is stopped. It's not much fun sitting in a cold steam room."

They all deflate a bit.

"Of course, a clever electrical engineer might be able to turn the heat back on", Brian muses, raising his eyebrows at John.

John smirks. "He might."

Roger gets up. He walks towards John with a wide grin on his face. "John Deacon", he says. "I'm so happy to have made your acquaintance."

They split up shortly after that with a plan to meet up at the baths around 9 to see if John can sneak them inside and get everything running. The image of Freddie lounging about a steam room in nothing but a towel is doing marvellous things to Roger's mood.

"What now", he asks as they step out into the corridor, but Freddie is already marching off. "Hey, where are you going?"

"E 116." He looks over his shoulder and raises one suggestive eyebrow at Roger. "Coming?"

Trying to keep the lewd grin off his face, Roger jogs after him. They keep sending each other stolen glances as they hurry along the stairs and corridors. There's a real spring in Freddie's step and Roger's heart soars at the thought that he might have something to do with putting it there.

But the closer they get to the cabin, the more Freddie slows down. When Roger walks up to the door with the keys he, er, happened to find earlier that day, Freddie waits a few paces back. "Alright?" Roger asks over his shoulder.

Freddie nods, but doesn't move.

Roger turns to him. "We can just go for a walk if you like." He feels like he could devour Freddie every waking hour of the day, but that doesn't mean it's the same for Freddie. "The sun's out. Or if you want to be alone for a couple of..."

"Sod this."

Roger gapes at him. It's the first time he's heard Freddie curse. "You..."

"You deserve a suite, not this rat hole that doesn't even have windows. I happen to have one." Freddie's eyes go dark. "With silk sheets."

Roger swallows. It's not that he doesn't like the idea, but... "I thought we were being seen together too often."

"Nothing wrong with having friends."

"What about Cy and the Colonel and...?"

"Sod them, too.”

A grin breaks out on Roger's face. Freddie's found a new favourite expression it seems. 

Maybe he can teach him a few more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I shoehorn in a reference to the glory hole stewards just because I could? Of course I did! Apparently, the tiny, cramped crew cabins were called glory holes, that's where the name comes from. 
> 
> The youngest assistant electrician on the Titanic was 18 and two of the trimmers were only 17 years old. John will turn 18 in the summer, so it's possible that he might have been on the ship at that age.
> 
> Also: 100+ kudos! Thank you all so much! I love every single comment I've received 💖 Kudos and love to all of you for reading another one of my self-indulgent wish fulfilment fantasies 😊


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Nastally for beta reading and saving the smut.

#### Sunday, 14th April 1912

##### 6pm, C-deck

“Wait for me in there. I'll be back in a minute." Freddie opens the door to his suite and urges Roger inside. They've made it through the hallways without being seen by anyone they know and - despite his earlier bravado - Freddie intends to keep it that way.

Roger stops in the doorway, a pretty little frown on his face. "Why, what do you..."

"Ah, Mr Bulsara!"

Freddie slams the door closed behind Roger and whirls around. There’s Lovejoy, Cy’s valet, heading down the hallway now of all times! Freddie grits his teeth and does his best to pretend like he doesn’t have anything to hide. "What is it?"

Roger will have been concealed by the door panel, Lovejoy can’t possibly have seen him.

"Mr Wadia has been looking for you. He invites you to join him for pre-dinner drinks at the Verandah Café at half past six." His words are polite. His cold, hard stare is not. This is not an invitation, it’s a summons.

This is just about the last thing Freddie needs. "Oh. Well, that is very kind, but I'm indisposed. My stomach hasn't really recovered yet." An upset stomach had been his excuse to bolt from the dinner table last night. It would serve him well again.

Lovejoy steps a little closer, so he can lower his voice. "I believe Mr Wadia has some business opportunities to discuss. He'd be _very_ disappointed if you couldn't make it.”

Disappointed, of course. Just like his father and everybody else in the world it seems. Freddie thinks back to who is waiting for him in the cabin. Everybody except one.

He tries to look unwell and puts a hand on his belly. “Unfortunately, I will have to disappoint then.” He leans in and drops his voice to a confidential whisper. “I would have to excuse myself every five minutes, so I'd make for terrible company. Give my regards to Cy." He locks the door and takes a step back. "Excuse me, but I’ve really got to go."

Freddie hurries down the corridor without giving Lovejoy a chance to question why Freddie’s leaving his suite when he’s so poorly. It wouldn’t be his place to do so, but Cy’s lackey is impertinent enough that he might.

When he reaches the cabin his mother and Kash share, he takes a deep breath. His mother has always been able to tell when he's lying. But if he had just sent a steward with a message, she surely would have paid him a visit - and the last thing he needs is for her to stop by his suite tonight.

He knocks and his stomach tenses as steps are heard inside. He does feel a little nauseous now. Hopefully he looks it, too.

The door opens. Kash breaks into a smile when she sees him. "Oh, hello there! What a rare sight in these quarters!" She’s already in her favourite Sunday evening dress, a dream of rose-coloured silk and chiffon.

He ignores her teasing. "Is mā there?"

"She's having a bath."

Oh, thank heavens. He tries to look disappointed. "Oh. Well, can you tell her that I'm indisposed and cannot join you for dinner?"

Kash raises her eyebrows. "Indisposed?"

"I must have eaten something that disagreed with me at lunch."

His sister's eyes narrow. "Have you got something more exciting to do than boring old dinner?"

He glares at her. "No. I plan on sticking to my bed." His skin prickles as he realises what he’s said. It's not a lie. It's worse.

"You don't look very sick."

"Well, I _feel_ very poorly." It's not that Kash is going to cause him trouble here. He's covered for her often enough when she wanted to get out of an evening entertainment. But that doesn't mean she's not going to be a pain about it. "Will you tell mā?"

She gives a deep, long-suffering sigh. Then she crosses her arms and looks up at him. "I heard all about your marvellous party in third class on Friday."  
"I'm sure whatever you heard was monstrously exaggerated. It was just a very small gathering. Mostly men playing cards and being rude to one another. Nothing that would interest y..."

"I want to come next time."

"Absolutely not." It's difficult enough sneaking about the ship on his own. And while his mother might be disappointed at his wasting his time like this instead of making valuable business connections, he doesn't have a word for how she'd feel about him dragging his little sister down there.

She glares at him with a mulish expression.

"It's Sunday night", he says. "There are no parties on a Sunday night."

"But I bet there's a party Tuesday night, before we land in New York."

Why does she have to be clever on top of pretty? It only causes problems. “I’m not sure if there’s…”

“Freddie!” She pretends to kick at his shin in a very unladylike way. “Do you take me for a fool?”

He stalls for a couple of seconds, then shakes his head in defeat. "I... I'll see what I can do, alright?"

"Promise."

He holds out his hand. "Promise." This is going to be a gigantic headache later, but Roger is waiting for him at the cabin (probably already naked under the sheets, good lord, he can’t think about this right now) and anyway, Tuesday is a long time away.

She grins at him for a second while they shake hands, but then her expression becomes serious. "You don't look well at all, Text with Creator's Style turned off", she says, putting a hand on his arm. "I better tell mā you can't possibly make it to dinner."

He kisses her cheek. "Thank you, Text with Creator's Style turned off."

* * *

When the lock of the door clicks, Roger hastily takes a few steps back from the painting he’s been studying and puts on his best scowl. "A minute", he growls as Freddie slips inside and shuts the door behind him.

Freddie shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it carefully on a hanger. "It's hard work, declining dinner invitations left and right”, he says with a nonchalant gesture of his arms.

"I was this close to breaking down the door and going on a rescue mission." Roger takes a sip of his – awfully good – brandy and leans against the windowsill.

"Were you?" Freddie quirks one eyebrow at him as he toes off his shoes. "What did you imagine I needed rescuing from?"

"Countesses, Americans, polar bears, icebergs, bridge parties..."

"Polar bears?"

Roger shrugs. "We're in the middle of the North Atlantic, aren't we? You never know..."

Freddie walks over to the drinks cabinet and reaches for the brandy. He's wearing a tailored waistcoat that blatantly shows off his small waist. And with the jacket gone, Roger gets a good look at his bum, too.

But fine figure or no, Roger’s not done complaining. "But it turns out you just decide to take your sweet time, leaving me to languish in here."

Freddie steps closer and clinks his glass against Roger's before taking a sip. "So sorry, darling. Can I make it up to you?" He looks up at him with his deep brown eyes, a slight smirk on his face. There’s a lightness to his flirting now, his former skittishness all but gone.

He looks awfully good like this. And awfully composed. Roger wants to ruffle him a bit.

He holds Freddie's gaze a bit longer, then drops his eyes to his mouth. He wets his lips, then holds his tongue between his teeth for a second. Freddie’s breath hitches and that makes something purr deep inside Roger. He raises his eyes again and cocks his head to the side, lifting his eyebrows as if to ask 'Well then?'

He loves this bit, when the air is crackling with a static charge, when he can see, _feel_ , the excitement he's stirring up. When anything could happen, from a deflecting quip to a passionate kiss.

Freddie takes a deep breath. His eyes don't meet Roger's and his lashes fan out dark against his cheekbones, which are glowing with a faint pink tinge.  
He purses his lips slightly on the exhale, a sight that is completely transfixing.

And then he drops to his knees.

Roger almost goes down with him, so surprised is he. "What…?"

But he doesn't have to ask what’s happening, does he? Not when Freddie is unfastening his trousers at the speed of light, keeping his stare fixed straight ahead, a determined expression on his face.

Jesus Christ, he'd barely been able to look at Roger's cock just this afternoon, now he's gone to his knees at barely a wink.

Roger should feel bad for spoiling something so pure, shouldn't he? It certainly shouldn't be something he takes pleasure in.

Freddie pulls his rapidly hardening cock out of his drawers and without missing a beat sucks it into his mouth. The sight makes it difficult to stay on his feet.

Freddie's going fast so he doesn’t have to think too much about what he's doing, Roger gets that, but that doesn't make it any less arousing. He grips the window sill with one hand and puts the other one in his hair, mostly to keep it out of Freddie's.

"God, you're so good", he whispers. "Feels amazing." There’s a gust of air against his belly as Freddie breathes out through his nose. Yes, he likes being talked to. But is it Roger’s voice, his tone, or what he’s saying?

Freddie's doing all the things he learned that afternoon, cleverly combining them and adding his own spin, like he's determined to make the most of the limited time they have.

Roger is gripped by a wave of unfamiliar sentimentality, sweet and sad at the same time. They don't have forever. Not that forever is something Roger wants, he doesn't think like that. He's always on the move, always leaving something or someone behind. But somehow he wouldn't mind if they got stuck in some fantastical time loop out here, circling the seas together. There's so much more he wants to show Freddie. So much more he wants to do with him.

The flutter of Freddie's tongue on the underside of his cock, just below the head, jolts him out of his thoughts. He moans at that sweet pressure and looks down to see Freddie with a crease of concentration between his brows, just like when he's playing a particularly hard passage on the piano. It's a bit scary how fond he is of this man, this bewildering mix of insecurity and daring, all that raw talent smothered under starched collars and layers of suits. If he could he would lay the world at his feet.

He crouches a little so he can reach under Freddie's armpits and pull him up. Before Freddie can ask what’s wrong, he presses their lips together in an urgent, messy kiss. Freddie's hands come up to twist in his hair and the slight pull sends goosebumps all over Roger’s neck. The way Freddie melts into his arms, the low moans he's making deep in his throat, it makes Roger feel like he’s a hundred feet tall and holding something precious in his clumsy hands. "Let me take care of you", he whispers against Freddie's lips. "Want you so much, you don't even know."

Freddie takes a shuddering sigh and nods.

"Come on", he says and starts walking Freddie backwards in the direction of the bedroom.

* * *

With one hand on his chest and another hooked into his braces, Freddie is manoeuvred flat onto his back. Then Roger is above him, his knees on either side of Freddie's thighs and his hips only inches away from where he is straining in his trousers. It should be overwhelming, alarming, but all Freddie does is raise his hands above his head to await with a racing heart what Roger is planning to do with him.

Roger leans down, breathing into his neck, sucking a patch of skin into his mouth. His hands are busy working Freddie's shirt open and he shivers at every touch on his bare skin.

"I'm gonna show you", Roger growls right against Freddie's throat, "gonna show you exactly what you do to me."

It's ridiculous, because Roger's the one who shatters Freddie's self-control with one flick of his wrist, but before Freddie can protest, Roger is crawling further down, mouthing at every inch of skin he lays bare. Freddie's hips move of their own accord, an immodest twisting motion he can't seem to stop.

"Been wanting to do that forever", Roger murmurs as he makes short work of his trousers and underwear. He pushes himself up a little and his eyes travel slowly up and down Freddie's scrawny body as if it’s the most desirable sight in the world. Roger's flattery borders on lying, but it's a sweet lie, a kind lie, and - at least for those few days they have together - he chooses to believe it.

A wet, soft heat right at the tip of his prick drives all thought out of Freddie’s head. Only Roger's weight on his hips keeps him from flying off the bed. He can barely contain an embarrassing moan as Roger's tongue swivels around the most sensitive part of him.

"Yes, let me hear you", Roger murmurs, his lips tickling him right there.

Then his mouth is gone but before Freddie can mourn its loss, Roger's tongue presses against the base of his member and slowly licks upwards in a long swipe before sucking him into his mouth again.

"You have the most gorgeous cock, you know that", Roger asks in a husky voice the next time he comes up. Freddie turns his burning face away and presses it into his bicep. He wants Roger to stop talking so filthy except he also craves to hear every single depravity he has to offer. "I want to suck you off so much." Roger gives a brief demonstration of how exactly he intends to do that. "Want to taste it when you fill my mouth."

And Freddie's close, he's so close to giving Roger what he asks for, when suddenly the pressure and the heat and the clever little flicks of tongue are gone. Freddie looks down at him to see what's going on and there's a tiny, self-satisfied smirk on Roger's face as he is crawling back up the length of Freddie's body.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing. For a second, Freddie resents him for it, for knowing him so well. For having everything come to him so easily.

But then Roger's kissing him and pressing him down into the mattress and his thoughts dissolve like ice in the summer heat.

"Stay there." Roger sits up on his knees and starts ridding himself off his clothes at record speed. "Stay just like that."

Freddie barely has a second to marvel at all that smooth golden skin before Roger is on him again. Maybe it's just a figment of Freddie's imagination, but he seems to be able to smell traces of their earlier lovemaking in the crook of his neck. Maybe if they do it often enough he’ll be able to keep a trace of Roger’s scent on him forever.

Roger pushes at his legs and without even thinking about it Freddie lets them fall open. It's only when Roger slots his body between them and urges him to bend his knees so that his feet are flat on the bed that Freddie realizes what's happening.

His heart misses a couple of beats, then gallops away like a bolting steed to make up for it. Please don't, he thinks, even as his legs tighten on either side of Roger's hips drawing him in closer. It's all happening so very fast.

But then, when he's all but bracing himself for the things to come, Roger's hand is on his member, pushing it a bit to the side until it touches Roger's own, which it's lying hard and heavy in the crook of Freddie's hip. Roger moves so they slide against each other. The friction of skin against skin borders on painful, but the realisation that they’re touching like this is exciting beyond measure.

Roger lifts one hand to his mouth and casually spits in it, then spreads the wetness over their pricks. It's filthy and revolting, but Freddie's protestations die on his tongue at the slick glide of hot, velvety skin against his own.

"Oh yes", Roger whispers, one hand on Freddie's hip to pull them even closer together. "Hmm, so fucking good." A tremor runs through Freddie’s body at Roger’s cursing. His mouth falls open at the next thrust and Roger licks inside it just for a moment. "You like it?"

Freddie nods. And then, because Roger makes him brave like that he adds a hushed "Yes."

Roger's hand moves to Freddie's knee, urging it up a little. "Can you put your leg around my waist? Yes, like that."

Freddie wraps his calf around Roger's lower back and pulls them even closer together. Roger is driving harder into him now, not particularly well-targeted, but the glide of spit- and sweat-slicked skin is bringing Freddie closer to the edge.

He feels like he should be doing something with his hands, help in some way, so he brings them down to his sides, unsure where exactly to put them. And then.

And then Roger links his fingers with Freddie's and slides their joined hands right back up above Freddie's head.

This has no right to feel as good as it does. Freddie writhes on the bed, not straining against Roger's grip but into it, and when Roger pushes into him again he lets his head fall back with a groan.

"Thought you might like that", Roger murmurs, his mouth so hot against Freddie's neck. He nips at the spot with his teeth and leans his whole weight into Freddie, bearing down on him and stealing his breath, and Freddie feels the heat rising low in his belly, drawing everything together. There’s nothing he can do but shout Roger's name as he spends messily between them.

"God, you." Freddie's dimly aware that Roger's picking up speed, chasing his own release in the slipperiness between their bodies. Freddie urges him in closer with his leg, encouraging him to go as fast as he pleases, and revels in the sensation of Roger trembling in his arms as he spills between them.

Neither of them is motivated to get towels to clean themselves, so expensive sheets are pressed into that degrading service.

Eons pass as Freddie just lies there, boneless and drowsy. How can he feel so good after all they have done?

It’s an idle question, but the words are out of his mouth before he’s had time to think them through. “Do you think it’s bad?”

Freddie expects a scoff or a snappy comeback, but when Roger answers his voice is serious. “No”, he says simply.

Freddie pushes himself up so he can look at Roger, who is lying sprawled out on his back on the sheets, partly covered by a blanket. The sheets are not silk, but cotton so finely spun Roger won’t be able to tell the difference. He looks so content, so sure with his answer that Freddie’s impulse to challenge him, to make him explain himself, dies somewhere between his heart and his tongue.

He lies his cheek back down onto his folded arms, looking in the other direction. For long minutes he tries to doze off, to keep that other question niggling at him at bay. But his defenses are down and it’s a losing battle. "That thing you were talking about earlier. Have you... have you ever... done it?"

"What thing?" Roger sounds like he is close to drifting off.

“You know.” Freddie has no idea if Roger’s genuinely sleepy or just trying to make him say it. To laugh at him as he squirms. “With the oil."

"Hm. Yes."

Of course he had. "Both ways?"

"Yes." There's a rustling of sheets, like Roger's turning towards him. "Does that bother you?"

"No." Of course it does. How dare he.

But then he doesn't sound like the experience put him off. Maybe it's not that bad after all if he's willing to have it done to him again. If he's willing to do it to

Freddie when he’s been so caring all this time.

Freddie takes a deep breath. Just three more days. His one chance.

"I want. I want that."

Roger lets out a long breath. "Bit of a tall order right now. But give me half an hour and..."

Freddie can't help but smile. "At some point, I meant."

"Yes, I figured", Roger says in a quiet voice. He runs a finger along the top of Freddie’s spine, then drops a kiss to his shoulder blade. It makes Freddie's hair stand on end. He lets himself sink into those soft feelings for a minute.

"You've done so much", Freddie says after a while. "I don't feel I can measure up."

Roger chuckles. "You're one to talk, posh boy."

"Drawing. Playing in a band.” Freddie rolls onto his back and starts counting it off on his fingers. “Making love. Travelling all on your own. Dancing."

" _You're_ the dancer!"

"Not like you."

"You're the one who can do en pointe. You can write and read proper music. And you've got to teach me some of your boxing technique. Might come in handy. All I can do is brawl."

Freddie has the sudden urge to see him brawling. Shirt torn, glistening with sweat, no technique or tactic to speak of, just Roger ferally tearing into someone who is trying to hurt him. He blinks that distracting image away. "It's really not that difficult", he says, trying to steer the conversation back to less alarming topics, "reading music."

Roger sits up and taps his fingers against Freddie’s shoulder. "Teach me then."

Freddie catches Roger's hand and draws circles on his palm. "So I lose my last advantage over you? No way. I like you illiterate." He is only half-joking.

"You make me sound like a medieval peasant." The blanket has slid off him, only covering part of his thigh now. He doesn't even seem to notice his nudity. Oh, how

Freddie envies him. "What if I teach you... hah, drawing. You still owe me a portrait. Although knowing you, you're probably going to turn out better at it than me anyway."

Roger doesn't have his drawing kit with him, but they find some White Star Line stationary and a couple of pencils to start them off. At Roger’s insistence, Freddie takes Roger to the piano and explains the basics of musical notation to him. He jots down some simple melodies for Roger to practice on his own while he sits on the sofa to go through some basic perspective exercises.

It takes him a while to get into it. He hasn’t drawn anything in a long while and his fingers feel stiff and clumsy.

"Why's it start with C instead of A? The scale?"

Freddie thinks about tones and semi-tones, minor and major scales for a minute. "I can explain it to you if you like, but it’ll take some time."

"Ah, don't bother then." Roger goes back to playing. “Later.”

He's thrown on some clothes, but his shirt is still half-unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up his elbows. It's a very distracting sight. Freddie wants to draw the line of his neck, the sinews in his forearms, the way he's peering at the notes through his glasses. A much more interesting subject than a whiskey tumbler on a coffee table.

Which still doesn't look quite right for some reason. It's probably something about the reflections, those are difficult. He smudges some of the edges with his finger to see if that helps. It doesn't.

He becomes aware that the melody Roger is playing sounds vaguely familiar, though he can't name it. He closes his eyes to concentrate better. Is it a tune they'd

been playing together, or maybe at the party? Up and down movements, always ending on the same note. Major, then minor. It sounds off somehow but...

Freddie's head whips around. C-minor and D-diminished, only Roger doesn't know about flat notes yet so it ends up being...

Roger has stopped playing. He is holding the sheets and Freddie's heart in his hands. He blinks up at him with his innocent blue eyes. "You write this yourself?"

* * *

Roger's given up trying to figure out what the tune is supposed to sound like. He's playing the right notes, he’s sure of that, but it just sounds weird. Maybe it's some experimental modernist thing?

He squints at the sheets. It's full of symbols he doesn't yet understand and he marvels at Freddie's mastery of this foreign language. He assumes it's Freddie's anyway. He turns around and waves the sheets about. "You write this yourself?"

Freddie doesn't answer. He's just staring at Roger with an unreadable expression on his face.

Roger shrugs apologetically. "Sorry, I most have horribly butchered the piece. What's it called?"

Suddenly Freddie is up and the sheets are snatched from Roger’s hands. "It doesn't matter", he snaps.

"Sorry", Roger says, holding up his arms at his sides and trying not to roll his eyes. Whatever has got into Freddie now. "It was on top of the piano so I thought..." He trails off. Freddie's eyes are glued to the sheets, breath coming quickly. After a few seconds, something like relief washes over his features and his tense shoulders sag.

"This is just..." Freddie holds up the sheets, then puts them on a side table, looking somewhat rattled, "just some rubbish. Never really worked anyway."

Roger shrugs. It _had_ sounded weird. Although Freddie probably could make it work. "Looks really professional though. You write a lot of music?"  
Freddie shakes his head. "I used to, but..."

...but it's just one other thing his parents made him feel bad about, of course. "Show me how to play it? Please?"

Freddie takes a couple of seconds to decide. "Move over", he says and then sits down next to Roger so they're hip to hip on the narrow piano bench.

Freddie is wearing his silk kimono - _only_ his kimono if Roger recalls correctly.

"Eyes on the notes", Freddie admonishes. "You've been playing it almost right, but you have to play a black key here and here. Oh, and here too." He taps the sheet.

"Why?"

"Because you have to use flat notes and on a piano that means black keys."

"Ah. Always wondered what those are for." He tries to play the melody again (and to remember to hit the black keys where necessary). It sounds darker, sadder. And a lot better. After a few goes, he stops. "You play it properly now."

He gets off the piano bench and sits down on the floor, leaning his back against the sofa. Freddie plays a flowing, wistful melody that brightens at times like a sun shining through the clouds, then sinking back into darkness, picking up speed and then slowing down again, like breathing. When he's finished, Freddie just sits there, hands resting on the keys.

Roger gets up to stand next to him. "Does it have words?"

"No", Freddie says quietly and without looking at him.

There is something about that song that has Freddie on edge. Roger is itching to find out what it is, but then his eyes catch on something on the lower right hand side of the last page. "FM", he reads out. "What's the 'M' stand for? Your middle name?"

Freddie hesitates for a second. "Something like that."

"Malcolm? Marc? Oh no, it's probably going to be an Indian one, right?"

Freddie is silent. His fingers play dainty little figures on the piano.

Roger bends down and puts his chin on Freddie's shoulder, sneaking his arms around his chest. It must be something important if he signs his music with it. "Tell me?"

"It's silly."

Roger turns his head so he can press his lips against him and blows a raspberry on his neck. "No", he says, breathless and giggly as Freddie tries to push him away. " _This_ is silly." He does it again.

"Oh, will you stop it." Roger can see how the muscles in Freddie's face are working as he tries not to smile.

"FM", Roger muses. "Freddie... hm. Freddie's music? Or perhaps it's a dedication. For mum. For me? Or some fancy latin. Faramum Meridius, which means, er..."

"Are you drunk?", Freddie asks.

"Have you seen me drinking? But good point, have you got any more of that excellent brandy, Frederic Magnifique?" He puts on his best French accent for that.

"Fancy Maccharoni. Free Marmalade. Frivolous..."

"Mercury", Freddie says quickly. "The M stands for Mercury, it's... it's just a... just a thing." Now he looks embarrassed and angry at himself.

"Sounds good", Roger says. If there's one thing he doesn't want it's for Freddie to be embarrassed and angry. "You certainly are mercurial."  
Freddie looks down his nose at him although he's sitting down. "That's quite a big word you're using there."

"Alright, I was going to let you off the hook, you know", Roger says and crosses his arms, "but you just spoiled it by being rude. So go on. Why that silly, silly name?"

"It's from a game I used to play when I first went away to school", Freddie says slowly. Nervous fingers play with the fabric of his kimono. "I loved to read poetry. Browning, Noyes, Tennyson... and I made up my own fantastical world." He reaches for a folder on top of the piano and retrieves a sheet, handing it to Roger. It doesn't have any notes on it, just chord symbols and lyrics. It looks a lot like what Brian does when he writes music.

 _"In the land where horses born with eagle wings"_ , Roger reads out, _“And honey-bees have lost their stings, There’s singing forever, Lion’s den with fallow deer.”_ He smiles at Freddie. ”That’s lovely."

"A lovely fantasy." Freddie's voice is flat and this time Roger doesn’t have to wonder why. A fantasy, not a reality. Roger has no problem imagining the desperately lonely, scared boy writing those lines, wishing himself to disappear inside them.

"There was that book on mythology in the library I read over and over again. It had a picture of the god Mercury, looking absolutely magnificent. It stuck with me."

"You are magnificent", Roger says. "You know that, right?"

Freddie stands up quickly, spinning around and raising his arms, making the kimono flutter around him. He throws back his head and with the sharp cut of his cheekbone and his blazing dark eyes he looks divine.

Roger openly admires him for a second, feeling Freddie drink it up. Then he breaks into a smile. "Come here, you fairy king or whatever you are."

"I'm not the fairy king", Freddie explains as Roger pulls him close and lets his hands slide over his back. "I'm just a messenger telling his tales on this bleak earth."

"Ah." Roger lets his hand trail a little lower, over his hip, his thigh. "Not all bleak, surely?"

Freddie swats his hand away. "No, not again. I cannot possibly."

"You never know until you've tried..." Roger tries to hold him close, but Freddie steps away and draws the kimono tighter around him.

He looks at Roger with a mixture of admonishment and amusement. "I better get dressed", he says. "Or we'll be late for the baths."

Right, they're about to meet up with John and Brian. The idea had sounded great in the afternoon, but now that they’ve got this luxurious bed and Freddie looking this close to giving in to him... "Ten more minutes", he asks, biting his lip and letting his eyelids grow heavy.

Freddie shakes his head and mumbles something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Come on.” Freddie ignores Roger’s disappointed whine. “We've got some criminal activity ahead of us and I'm not going to miss it."

Roger doesn’t point out that if it’s criminal activity Freddie’s after, there’s a bed right next door. He consoles himself with one last peek at Freddie's formidable arse as he shrugs off the kimono. Then, with the sigh of a man condemned, Roger starts buttoning up his shirt properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are pictures of Kash's dress and Freddie's kimono (which I'm pretty sure his mum doesn't know about):  
> 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For better orientation, here's the layout of the Turkish Baths:  
>   
> This chapter takes place in the steam room, the swimming pool and the cooling room.
> 
> As always, thanks to nastally for her beta reading!

#### Sunday, 14th April 1912

##### 9.30 pm, Turkish Baths, F-deck

A droplet of sweat is slowly running down Roger’s chest. 

Freddie observes its path through half-closed eyes, lazily imagining how it would taste if he chased it with his lips and tongue until it disappears in the towel slung low around Roger’s hips. 

Of course, he might not stop there.

"What shall we call ourselves?" 

Brian's question derails his dangerous trail of thought. He turns his gaze away from Roger and to the star-painted ceiling of the hot room. When has he become so single-minded? It’s like every thought, every feeling he has is always looping back to Roger. Or is sparked by him in the first place. Thank god he can blame his feverish cheeks on the temperature and humidity of the steam bath if he has to.

"How do you mean", Roger asks.

"Our band. If we're going to play at the farewell party, we'll need a name." Brian thinks for a minute. "Like, hm, the Titanic Quartet.”

“Hm.” John doesn’t sound impressed. 

“I’m just getting started!” Brian looks at each of them in turn, his eyebrows raised. “A bit of help would be appreciated.”

Freddie rolls his shoulders. He feels hot and sluggish and not at all in the mood for intellectual activity. 

“The Titanic Tenors”, Roger suggests with a lazy drawl. 

“I’m not a tenor.”

Roger rolls his eyes at John. “Yes, we are aware. It’s just that ‘The three Titanic tenors and one bloke with a guitar’ doesn’t have the same ring, you know?” 

“But I like the direction”, Brian says, perking up a little. “How about…” he thinks for a moment. “Something like The Fabulous Freddie and his... Flashy Flotsam. Or something."

Freddie grins. "Oh, I like the sound of that."

"I'm not flotsam", Roger protests.

"And you just like it because that makes it sound like it’s your band, Freddie", John adds. “Which it’s not.”

"Don't be silly, da... Deacon." He catches his loose tongue from slipping just in time. "I like it because it's alliterating, topical..."

"It makes us sound like a circus”, Roger says. "Also, playing together was _my_ idea. So if anything, it should be my band."

A sly grin appears on John’s face... "The Ridiculous Roger and his... his..."

"...Rambunctious Rodents", Brian finishes.

"Stop right now, both of you." Roger glares at Brian and John. It is an utterly endearing sight. Freddie turns his eyes back up to the stars.

"How about something with Brilliant Brian in it", the brilliant Brian suggests.

"If anything you'll be billed as The Broody Brunette", Roger grumbles.

"Then you can be The Blustering Blond", Brian says. He doesn't seem at all broody to Freddie, but like he’s enjoying the game very much. "And then we've got the Radiant Red-Head and-"

John gapes. "I'm not a red-head!"

"... and the... the..." Brian taps his fingers against each other as he’s trying to come up with a follow-up.

"...Dainty Dark-Haired, er, Dandy?"

Freddie cocks his head and gives Roger his best disdainful sneer. "Really? That's the best you can come up with? Abysmal."

"There is no word for someone with black hair", Roger protests.

"Roaming Raven-Haired Rhapsode", Brian suggests. "Mysterious Melanite?"

Roger groans. "Are you making that up? What the hell is that even supposed to mean?"

"It's a rare dark crystal", Brian explains, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "It’s very shiny."

"Hmm. A Mercurial Melanite, perhaps?" Roger winks at Freddie and gives him a lopsided grin. Freddie can’t help but smile back at him. 

"Just for the record", John says. "I'm not performing billed as The Brilliant Brian and His Mercurial Melawhatsits."

Freddie giggles and wipes away a droplet of sweat that is tickling his nose. They’re all wearing nothing but towels, but somehow he feels at ease here, sitting in the tropical heat and playing silly word games. 

"Yeah, me neither." Roger stretches his arms out over his head. 

Freddie forces himself to look away. "What was the question anyway? We got a bit distracted, I suppose."

"Must be all that heat", Brian says, wiping his forehead. "How long are we supposed to be in here?"

John shrugs. "No idea. As long as we like, I reckon."

"That can't be healthy”, Brian mutters.

Roger grins at him. "Worried that big brain of yours might melt?"

"At least I've got something to worry about."

Roger dips his fingers into the small puddle of sweat that has collected just above his belly button (Freddie has observed its formation eagerly over the last half-hour) and flicks them at Brian.

"Hey", Brian yells and shakes himself, "that's disgusting!"

"Shhh!" John hushes them. Brian falls quiet and Freddie and Roger do their best to stifle their shrieking laughter. Smuggling a bunch of passengers (especially steerage passengers) into the Turkish Bath after hours might well cost John his job and the cabins of the bath attendants are just down the hallway.

Roger stretches out his legs in front of him, wiggling his toes. "How about a dip in the pool then?"

* * *

The dip in the pool is just as refreshing as Roger had hoped it would be, but to his unending disappointment, Freddie doesn't join in. He merely sits on the edge and lets his feet dangle in the water while Roger, Brian and John swim their laps and try to duck each other under.  
Freddie claims it’s because it’s way too cold for him to immerse himself in, but Roger isn’t sure if that’s true. Freddie never wears his heart on his sleeve after all. It might be the cold water, but perhaps he just can’t swim and doesn’t want him and the others to know? Or maybe he's just too uncomfortable walking around in a pair of sodden linen drawers (which, Roger has to admit as he looks down at himself, leave little to the imagination). 

However, Roger's mood is immediately improved by the fact that John has put on a striped swimsuit, which he insists is not at all ridiculous (but obviously is). Afterwards, they all retire to the cooling room, which despite its name is at a comfortably cozy temperature. It’s the biggest and most lavishly furnished room of the bath, with intricately carved teak wood panelling, glossy blue-and-green ceramic tiles on the walls and a burgundy painted ceiling with lanterns hanging from it.

And all that on a ship in the middle of the North Atlantic!

It's a marvel, really. And he's allowed to experience it with his lover and his best friend and John (who despite the rough start he might also call a friend by the end of the trip) and they're all going to meet up again tomorrow to make some more music and some more love (not all of them though). Someone must have been smiling down on him the day he picked up that poker deck. 

"Alright", John says after a while and swings his legs over the edge of the bench he's been lying on. "My shift starts in 20 minutes. You guys can stay a little longer, but when you leave, turn the thermostat on the hot air tanks back down, as I showed you." He slips on his shirt and does up the buttons. "Of course, if any of you are interested, you can tag along and I can show you some of the ship's machinery. Got to check on the Parson's turbine anyway."

As expected, exactly one person is interested in seeing the turbine. 

That's alright with Roger though, because it means he gets to have Freddie all to himself. In nothing but a towel. Looking like sin itself.

He really is a lucky devil, isn't he?

"Your friend is weird", Freddie says, after John and Brian have gone, excitedly chatting about the developments propulsion technology has made in the last decade. "How do you know each other?"

"Brian? He used to drink in a pub I helped out in."

"You worked in a pub?" Freddie frowns at him. He always scoffs when Roger mentions another place he’s worked at, as if he suspects him of making it up. 

"Only for a couple of months. Thought he was an odd one at first, but we got talking, about music and art and stuff. He's really bright. Loves photography. If you ask him nicely, he might show you his camera." It’s his most prized possession and he had been fretting for hours before they boarded whether it would be safer to keep it in their cabin or hand it over to storage. 

Freddie looks intrigued. “Hmm, why not?" 

Roger’s thoughts drift off for the moment. Maybe Brian could take a photograph of the two of them. Or just one of Freddie that Roger can take with him when they… he tries to take his mind off those thoughts. “Yeah.” Roger tries to get the conversation back on track. “So, Brian, he went to grammar school and all. Might have gone to university even, got offered a scholarship and everything, but then his dad got sick and lost his job and he needed to earn some money. He got a clerical position with the Royal Mail. His parents were so proud." Roger rolls his eyes. "His dad's a shipbuilder, by the way."

"Oh, is that why he knows so much about engines and stuff?” 

“I guess so, yeah.”

Freddie absentmindedly runs a finger along his lips. It’s a very distracting sight. Maybe Roger could _borrow_ Brian’s camera and…

“So why’s he on his way to America then?"

"Freddie, do you have any idea how boring it is to work as an underling at the post office? Especially for someone who’s really smart?" 

"Can't say I do..."

Roger chuckles. "Me neither. But he was bloody miserable. It paid the bills though."

"Poor chap." 

"Anyway, once his dad got back into work it was too late for his scholarship and he was stuck."

Freddie finishes the story. "And so he came to drown his miseries in the pub and that's how he met you."

"Exactly. Been trying to get him to join me in my ‘Bohemian’ lifestyle forever, but all he could think about was what his parents would say if he gave up his position."

"What made him change his mind?"

Roger thinks for a minute whether he should tell him about the whole Chrissie drama. But no. That's Brian's story to tell. "Do you know how I got on this ship? Why I'm here?"

"Divine providence?"

Roger snorts. "Right. Although..." He thinks about it for a moment. "Well, I did have an awful lot of sheer good luck that night."

"What night?"

"The night I won the tickets. At poker. I was about to fold but then that Swedish guy suddenly throws the tickets onto the table, and I decide, out of nowhere really, to go all in. With a low pair." It had been a reckless call, one that he usually was too smart to make.

"What would have happened if you'd lost?"

Roger shrugs. "Draw up some sketches real quick and hope like hell someone's gonna buy one before last call. Otherwise, it would have been a hungry and cold night for me.”

Freddie nods, a thoughtful expression on his face. However horrible school must have been for him, he probably never had to wonder where the next meal would come from. Still. Roger wouldn’t trade their lives even if it meant never going hungry again.

"So the next time we met, I showed him the tickets and said 'I'm going to America in five days - and some lucky bastard is going to come with me.' I can’t say he jumped at the chance.” In fact, Brian had looked completely crestfallen at first. It wasn’t like Roger wanted to leave him behind - but there was no chance he was going to pass up the chance of going to America! “Honestly, when we said goodbye that day, I thought that was the last time I'd seen him for a long while. But then he showed up at my place three days later with a suitcase, two train tickets to Southampton in his hand and half his life's savings sewn into his underthings." Roger pauses for a moment. "Which is a secret, now that I think about it, but I don't think he’s in any danger of being robbed by you, right?"

"Hmm.” Freddie purses his lips, a thoughtful expression on his face. “How much is he worth?"

"Less than one of your kimonos, I would guess." He eyes Freddie speculatively. Maybe now that the others have gone… "I thought I might have another swim", he ventures. "Care to join me?” 

Freddie doesn't look very keen to get up from his comfortable spot in the reclining chair.

"It's not that cold, really", Roger says. “And we can warm up in the hot room afterwards."

Freddie looks at the ceiling. "But it's deep."

Ah. So there _is_ something else. "I'll hold you up", Roger says lightly, like it’s no big deal. Because it isn’t, but Freddie’s probably going to make it one. 

“Wouldn’t you rather... “ Freddie throws him a somewhat heated look. “Stay here?” 

As far as flirting attempts go, it’s harmless, but considering this is Freddie it’s as explicit as it’s going to get. And it’s not like Roger doesn’t want to - in fact, he’ll be very disappointed if they don’t manage another tryst before the night is over - but his plans aren’t derailed that easily. 

“Come on”, he says and gets up from his bench. “Just five minutes and then we can…” He raises his eyebrows and gives Freddie a meaningful look. “Then we can do whatever _you_ want.”

To his disappointment, Freddie puts on his drawers before heading out to the pool, which is ridiculous given all they've done, but Roger is not going to complain. He puts on his sodden underwear too and they head down to the pool. 

The water feels warmer now that they're not heated up from the steam bath. Or maybe the heating has been running long enough to have an effect on the water too. A broad staircase leads into the pool, continuing under water until it reaches the bottom. Even at the deep end, it’s just a little deeper than Roger is tall.

"Ever been in a pool?"

"I've been sea bathing", Freddie says, standing at the middle of the stairs, sounding very prim and proper. "But you only go in to about here." He holds up a hand to his chest. Roger can’t help noticing how his nipples have become tiny hard pebbles.

He clears his throat and forces his eyes back up to Freddie’s face. "So you people have found a way to make swimming in the ocean boring, is that what you’re telling me?"

"It's very healthy", Freddie says, then realises he sounds like an upper-class matron and grimaces at himself.

"Alright, come here." Roger holds out his hand and waits until Freddie has come down to the bottom of the stairs. He puts one arm around Freddie's back. "Remember when we danced? When I dipped you? Lean back just like that. I'll hold you." Freddie does so, gingerly. "Now lift your feet off the ground. Put your weight on me."

Freddie gives him a dubious look.

"Come on. I'll hold you. I promise."

Freddie lifts his feet momentarily and Roger slides his free arm under his knees. "Right. Now stretch yourself out a bit."

"I really don't see what..."

"Just try it."

Slowly Freddie unfurls his long limbs. Roger slides his left hand up a little to support Freddie's head.

"It's mostly the water carrying you now", Roger explains. "You don't even need my hands anymore."

"I want your hands", Freddie says immediately.

Roger smiles. "Right. Then you shall have them." He starts pushing and pulling Freddie gently from left to right, letting him feel the water surrounding him. He tries to remember when he learned to swim and finds that he can't. It’s like trying to remember how he learned to walk. The river had always been there and the sea so close. It had just been a natural part of growing up.

Freddie moves, kicking down with his legs and Roger takes his arm away so he can go back to standing. "That was... quite nice, actually", he says.

Roger beams at him. He knew he’d like it! "Now for the actual swimming."

"Oh no.” Freddie’s taking a step back. “I'm really not built for-"

Roger leans in close. "I'll keep my hands on you at all times", he promises.

Freddie rolls his eyes at him but after a bit more prodding he agrees to try a few more things. Roger gets him to dog paddle up the length of the pool with only a perfunctory arm wrapped around his middle to make it a little easier. "This is exhausting", Freddie complains, holding on to the railing with both hands and treading water.

"You're doing very well", Roger says. Freddie's hair is curling up at the nape of his neck. He slips one arm around Freddie's chest and presses a kiss right there. He can feel the shiver running through Freddie and can't resist pressing the entire length of his body against him.

"We really shouldn't", Freddie says, which is about the flimsiest protestation Roger has ever heard in his life. 

God, how is he ever going to make it through three more days? And after, how is he ever going to live the rest of his life in the shadow of what are turning out to be the best days he's ever had? He's always found it easy to take his pleasures where he found them, then move on when they lost their sparkle. For the first time, he has an inkling of how it might feel to be the one left behind.

Roger pushes the thought away and hums in agreement. "It would be quite the scandal were we caught like this." Freddie's neck tastes salty from the pool water as Roger sucks the skin into his mouth.

"Quite", Freddie gasps. He lifts one arm to reach back and draw Roger's closer to him, but stops abruptly and winces.

"Your shoulder?"

Freddie nods.

"Maybe we should try the electrical bath. I heard it works miracles."

"It's not that I don't trust you, darling, but I will not let you run electrical currents through me, thank you very much.”

Roger secretly thrills every time Freddie calls him darling. He'd put it off as a foppish affectation at first, but it comes out of his mouth so naturally that it sounds completely genuine. “What if I tell you I’m also a certified electrical bath attendant?”

Freddie turns around, eyes narrowed. “Then I’d call you a filthy liar.”

“How rude!” Roger gasps and splashes some water at Freddie’s face. 

“Rude?” Freddie splashes some water right back at him. “You are proposing to electrocute me!”

Roger’s instinct, honed by whole summers spent swimming and horsing around with his friends, is to grab Freddie by both shoulders and duck him underwater, but he catches himself just in time. 

Instead, he puts a hand on Freddie’s shoulder and squeezes the muscles there. “Alright. No electrocution. Couple of minutes in the hot room and then you get that massage I promised you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what the cooling room looked like:  
> 
> 
> If you want to read up on the topic of Victorian Turkish Baths, there’s a whole [website](http://www.victorianturkishbath.org/_6DIRECTORY/AtoZEstab/Liners/TitanOlympic/TitanOlympicEng.htm) dedicated to it.
> 
> It’s not completely clear how exactly the Electric Bath worked. According to Wikipedia it was like an early - and highly carcinogenic - tanning bed, but [other sources](https://titanic.fandom.com/wiki/Electric_Bath) say “it worked by surrounding the person's body with intensely hot steam which was supposed to reinvigorate and revitalise them”. Given that tanned skin wasn’t en vogue yet at the time, I find the latter explanation more convincing.
> 
> On a different note: With the Must Fuck Weekend and Freddie Week coming up, updates may be a little slower. But don't worry, we'll be back!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my wonderful beta nastally 🙏
> 
> Here's the layout of the Turkish Baths again. We've moved to the temperate room now:  
>   
> 

"How come you know your way around a Turkish Bath so well?" Freddie’s sitting on a couch in the temperate room, observing Roger idly as he assembles towels and pillows around him. His feet are dangling in the air and he’s still looking flushed from their brief trip to the steam bath, his hair damp with sweat. 

Roger sends a quick grin in Freddie's direction. "Guess”, he says as he spreads a large towel over the bench. 

For a proper Turkish massage, they should have used one of the two shampooing rooms, but they're less comfortable with their stone benches and whitewashed walls, and it’s not like they need the shampooing facilities anyway. Although the idea of covering Freddie in foam and rubbing soap all over his body has got its own appeal. Another night perhaps.

Freddie looks at him for a second, then huffs out a laugh. "You're pulling my leg."

"Just for a few months though. I was mostly stacking towels and scrubbing floors after hours, so don't expect anything", he slaps his hands together, "anything fancy. But I picked up a thing or two. Come on, hop on." He pats the bench.

"Is there a job in the world you haven't held", Freddie asks as he climbs onto the bench and lies down on his back, folding his hands on his stomach. 

Roger pretends to think hard for a minute. "Cotton merchant", he says after a while and deftly escapes Freddie's swat. "Hey, stop that! Lie still." The bench is a little low for him to reach comfortably, but it should be fine for a brief massage. He puts a pillow under Freddie's knees and a folded towel under his head, then he kneels on the floor just behind Freddie's head.

"Should I turn around?" Freddie cranes his neck to look at him. 

"This is fine for now." Roger puts his hands at the base of Freddie's neck where it broadens into his shoulders and presses down lightly. "Tell me if anything feels wrong."

"No, it's good", Freddie says.

Roger smoothes his hands along to the tops of his shoulders and upper back. He can already feel the tightness in the left-hand side. "Your muscles are all seized up", he says.

"Hmmm." Freddie hums in agreement.

Slowly Roger starts to knead with the pads of his thumb. Freddie sighs contentedly and rolls his head to the side to give him more access. Roger smiles. During his stint at the Watford Baths, one of the masseurs had shown him some things. Roger’s really not an expert, but he's always found it came easy to him. He likes the connection, the way he can soothe pain and make another person feel good. He reaches underneath the shoulder blades as far as his fingers can go and presses his fingertips up.

Freddie gasps and a grimace appears on his face. "Oh."

"Too much?"

"No, just... stay right there."

Ever so slowly Roger can feel Freddie relax into his fingers, tense muscles softening with every breath. 

When he's done as much as he can from that position he gets up. "Alright. Turn around now."

Freddie sighs contentedly and shuffles until he lies flat on his stomach, arms resting beside him. "I feel better already."

"Glad to hear that." Roger pours some of the massage oil into his hands, letting it warm for a minute, then he puts his palms flat on Freddie's back and spreads the oil around in wide sweeps. "Comfortable?"

Freddie nods and yawns widely. He stretches his arms out in front of him, tensing his muscles for a moment. Roger can feel them shift under his fingertips. He takes the opportunity to marvel at the sight of Freddie’s slim back. The deep dip of his spine casts a dark contrast of shadow against his skin, which looks pale against Roger's tanned hands.

Roger sits down awkwardly on the edge of the bench and sweeps his hands in long, rhythmic strokes over Freddie's back. After a while, he adds some more oil and starts working his way up the strand of muscles next to the spine with steady pressure. He spreads his fingers and slides further along the flanks, then up until he reaches the curved line of Freddie's shoulder blades. Freddie tenses minutely and presses his face into the pillow.

There it is. Roger keeps his touch light but persistent as he works on the hard knot of muscle right over Freddie's shoulder blade, keeps on tugging and pressing until finally he feels it give, some of the tension melting away. Freddie sighs deeply into the pillow. "Are you a magician", he asks, voice muffled.

"I might be", Roger says and gentles his hands again into broad strokes. He slides his thumbs along the upper parts of Freddie's back until they meet at the nape of his neck, and then lets his hands stroke upwards, right next to the spine, until they are buried in Freddie's hair.

Freddie bends his head forward as far as it will go, so pliable under his hands. When Roger massages the sensitive muscles at the base of his skull with tiny movements of his fingertips, Freddie makes a groaning noise that tells Roger he found another sore spot. He keeps the circular motion going for quite a while, then he slips one hand out of Freddie's hair - which looks fantastic, mussed up and damp like this - and trails it down along his spine, down until his knuckles brush against the fabric of Freddie's towel and he has the length of his back stretched out between his hands. It looks good. It _feels_ good.

He pulls his second hand down as well and massages Freddie’s lower back, adding a little more pressure. Freddie's skin has a pleasant red flush now, from the friction of Roger's fingers, the heat in the room, and maybe something else as well.

Roger circles his hands so his fingertips slide just underneath the top of the towel.

"Want me to go on", he asks in a light voice. This _is_ part of a classical massage, but Roger can't deny some part of his mind is straying in a very different direction. 

_I want to do that with you._

At some point, Roger reminds himself. He didn’t mean right now. They’ve still got two whole days. Three nights. 

Just when Roger is about to abandon his track and focus on his arms instead, Freddie nods. 

Roger tugs the towel off and puts it aside. Before he can get lost in the sight and his lewd imaginations, he digs his fingers into the strong muscles of Freddie's bum, keeping his touch as professional as he can. Freddie's tense, the muscles tight under Roger fingers while he works away at them with a kneading motion. 

Roger can hardly believe the turns his life has taken over the past few days that led to this beautiful man spread out in front of him, naked and trusting, a mere day after he'd so nervously dropped his kimono for the first time. He's a marvel, simple as that. And somehow, Roger is supposed to give him back to those people at the end of the voyage. It's so unfair.

Don't think about that. It's not important now, at this moment, which should be all about Freddie. 

His hands wander lower until they reach the crease where buttock becomes thigh and he swipes inwards with his thumbs, letting them trail downwards along Freddie's inner thighs, feeling a brief tensing of muscles there.

And then Freddie shifts his legs a fraction wider apart.

That tiny motion sends a rush of desire through Roger, and he immediately repeats the movement of his thumbs - a long, slow swipe up, and then down, and up again. Freddie’s head is turned to the side, resting on his arms. His eyes are closed now and there is a flush on his sharp cheekbones. Roger adds one more repetition and when his fingers reach their highest position right at the top of his thighs, Freddie makes a small sound in his throat and lifts his hips up just a tiny bit.

Roger pauses and looks away and takes a deep breath to get his raging desire under control. His plan had been to continue his massage all the way down to Freddie’s feet (his knees and calves and feet are lovely enough to merit an exploration on their own), but this. This is proving to be that much better than he ever would have dared to imagine.

He continues the slow slide of his thumbs, but ends each upward stroke by fanning his fingers over the bottom half of Freddie's arse. Freddie's breath hitches and he curls his spine so his bottom is actually _pushed_ into Roger's hands.

Roger's breath is coming so fast now he can hear it in the stillness of the room. He cups one of Freddie's buttocks with his right, encouraging him to stay exactly as he is, while his left follows the crease of his thigh deeper between his legs until he reaches his balls, already drawn up tight against his body. He cups and fondles them as best as he can given the angle, watching Freddie's mouth fall open as he gasps for air.

He's glad he's only wearing a towel as any form of clothing would have become extremely uncomfortable by now. The sounds that Freddie is making are the most arousing thing in the world and the sight of him, naked and sweaty and flushed with heat and all but spreading his legs for him is almost more than he can bear. Whatever happens after they land in New York, this will be a sight he will never forget as long as he lives.

_To make every day count._

He stills his hands for a minute. His heart is thumping in his chest as he thinks about what he’s going to do next.

Then he touches just one finger against the skin right behind Freddie's balls and slowly, observing every one of Freddie’s reactions with his heart in his throat, slides it upwards.

* * *

"Want me to go on?"

Freddie has never wanted anything more in his life. He doesn't know why he's suddenly looking forward to debasing himself so thoroughly when all his life the sheer thought filled him with dread. But maybe Roger is the exception, that magic ingredient that turns muddy waters into a refreshing spring and humiliation into privilege.

He nods and the towel is whipped away. To his relief and disappointment, Roger does continue to massage him just like he did before, digging his fingers into his muscles and working to release the tension. But even more so than before, every touch, no matter how professional, sends shivers through him, stoking the fire in his belly even as his muscles relax.

Roger's hands creep further down, inch by inch, and then he does something that feels so breathtaking that Freddie can't contain a moan and shifts his leg apart, silently begging Roger to do it again. Like a common whore. Freddie presses his burning forehead into the towel as the shame washes through him. It makes him want to crawl away and curl up in a corner, but it also sends shockwaves of desire all over his body.

He doesn't have time to dwell on it because without giving any indication that he noticed Freddie's shameful weakness, Roger repeats the motion of his hands, again and again, until the pressure builds so much that Freddie cannot stay still even a second longer. He presses his backside into Roger's hands, silently begging him for more in a movement that is entirely obscene.

Despite it all, the hand between his legs is unexpected and shocking. He is panting into the towel now, hoping it might muffle him enough that Roger doesn't know just how far gone he is, how there is nothing in the world he could deny him now.

Then a finger slides up between his buttocks and he knows that if he is to stop this, now is the moment. But whatever dark powers are casting their spells over him, he isn't just willing to bear it now. He _wants_ this.

The first touch is underwhelming for all the expectations Freddie has charged it with. Just the gentle push of finger against his entrance, quickly retreating again. Two fingers work in a small circle all around it, not even pushing in, just... well, massaging. And just like the rest of the massage Roger gave him, it feels good. Relaxing. Comforting. Soothing tense muscles without ever digging into them too hard. Freddie takes a deep breath and lets himself sink into the bench. It's just a temporary reprieve, it won't stay like that, but whatever pain he’ll have to endure, Roger will surely soothe it again afterwards.

There's a brief pause and then the massage continues, two fingers on opposite sides now, sliding more easily over the skin. Roger must have added some more oil, and the image of what he must see - Freddie's most intimate place, bared for him, two fingers glistening with oil rubbing over it - has him bite the inside of his cheek. When he lets go he realises that there is a new sensation, something moving inside him. Roger must somehow have slipped in a finger and Freddie didn't even notice, except now he knows he notices every single detail. The slight callous on the fingertip. The widening of the first knuckle. The light twist as it is pushed deeper inside.

Physically it's not all that arousing, certainly not compared to how it feels when Roger has got his hands on his prick, but the knowledge that Roger is inside his body imbues even the smallest sensation with a heady significance. No one else has ever done this to him. No one else ever will.

Then Roger is in so deep that his knuckles brush against Freddie's backside and he...

"Oh my..." There's not enough air in his lungs to finish the oath. It doesn't even feel good, if anything it feels a bit like he has to empty his bladder, but the pressure right there, so deep inside him is making his head spin. Roger eases off but instead of being relieved Freddie wants to have it back. He doesn't understand what is happening, but he's rocked back onto Roger’s finger before he even realises what he's doing.

He'll have to jump off this ship after all. He'll _have_ to, because it'll be the only way to make sure he'll never have to look Roger in the eyes again, because how could he possibly, after this?

Roger circles the spot this time, giving him just enough to keep him straining for more. Freddie rolls his hips and he's aware that his prick is rubbing pleasurably against the towel under him, but the sensation pales in contrast to the sheer intensity of what is happening inside him.

The finger withdraws again and Freddie bites his lips to keep the whine inside. There's more pressure at his entrance and for a second Freddie freezes when he thinks that Roger’s just gone and... but then there's a soothing hand his back and Freddie releases his breath. Only a second finger. _(Only.)_ It burns somewhat, but very quickly both fingertips are at that infernal spot, pressing and circling and rubbing over it and Freddie feels like he's about to shake apart.

It’s like his entire body, every nerve ending is drawing in on the one spot, glowing red hot and sending out waves of pulsing want into his ears, his fingertips, his toes. It's like an ever-increasing pressure that just keeps on building, every second feeling like it cannot possibly become any stronger until it does, and then does it again. And again. It has to stop, _needs_ to stop somehow, but Roger keeps at it mercilessly and with the last functioning part of his brain Freddie wonders if the French are right and it is actually possible to die from this.

"Am I hurting you?"

Freddie presses his face deeper into the towel and shakes his head. If his life depended on it he couldn't speak right now. If he tried, all the noises that are building up in his throat would leap out uncontrollably.

He's ruined. Roger has utterly ruined him without even taking him properly, because there is nothing that could ever compare to this.

And then, as if he hadn't wreaked enough havoc, Roger presses a little harder and then moves his finger in tiny, fast movements. Everything inside him tenses, seizes up as it does just before he spends and he's euphoric in the certainty that he’s about to tumble over that cliff and then... and then he just stays like this, frozen in this state of torment with ecstasy just beyond his reach. He digs his fingers into the edge of the bench and lets out a sob that echoes through the room, desperate for his release, but all he gets is that maddening finger fluttering away inside of him, trapping him in this hell, this heaven, this madness.

"Freddie." Roger is panting, his breaths hot and cold against Freddie's back. His forehead is pressing hard into the spot right between his shoulder blades. "Please, please can I fuck you, I... you are so... oh Christ."

Roger's voice falls to a whisper. Freddie is pulsing and throbbing around those fingers that suddenly feel hard and big inside him. This is not the sharp, focussed, bright release that he knows, but something darker and slower, like a maelstrom of molasses drawing him under as his body gives up and he falls and falls endlessly into the darkness.

The next thing he knows is that a hand is stroking over his backside, back and forth, slow but with a certain urgency. "Oh God, Freddie", Roger mumbles. "Oh my God." It tickles, though in a good way. “Freddie…?”

He remembers what Roger had been asking (the thought of his words alone would make him blush if his face wasn't burning already) and he nods. Nothing Roger could possibly do to him could shock him now.

"Oh, thank God." He feels Roger climb onto the bench until he's kneeling over him. "Do you have any idea what you look like? You just..." He pushes Freddie's legs a little further apart with his knees and lowers himself over him. "I'll be careful, promise", he whispers and then there's his prick pushing against Freddie. He's boneless and relaxed, but the stretch has him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth. 

"You alright, love", Roger asks breathlessly. "I can stop", he whispers even as he pushes in further. "Please don't make me stop."

The feeling is overwhelming, Roger everywhere around him and inside him, filling him and surrounding him, his weight pressing him down into the bench. He can't speak, but he can push back and Roger's whispered curse and the feeling of his prick rubbing against the towel sends a fresh wave of need through his wrecked body.

Roger wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him a little onto his side. Freddie can breathe more freely and at the same time Roger slides in even deeper. He hits that spot deep inside him and it _hurts_ , like fingers digging into an overused muscle, but it also makes his prick pulse with arousal. Roger is setting up an urgent rhythm now, hitting him there again and again, and Freddie can't bear it, but he couldn't bear him stopping either.

Rogers hands roam over Freddie's chest, his hips, his stomach, like he cannot leave any part of him untouched. His wrist brushes against Freddie's cock, and he gasps. His fingers curl around Freddie's cock and he stills. "Freddie", he whispers. "What... How? I thought you..."

Freddie just shakes his head. He doesn't know. He doesn't know what is happening to him, what Roger is doing to him, but please he needs to keep moving, keep touching him otherwise Freddie will simply explode. He'll beg once he has the breath for it, he'll do whatever Roger asks if only he keeps on moving.

"Yes, alright. Alright, I got you." Roger's hand moves on his prick and the sense of relief is so urgent Freddie feels a drop of wetness run down his cheek. Thank god Roger can't see his face. His self-control is well and truly shattered and all he can do is give in and let himself be taken as Roger starts to move again.

* * *

Pushing his cock into Freddie while he is still pulsing from his release is almost enough to send Roger over the edge at once. But he bites his lips and holds back because this is too good to be over in a flash. He won't draw it out too much either though because Freddie will be aching for a rest after just having spent.

On Roger's fingers. On nothing but Roger's fingers inside him. Roger had barely been able to believe it as it was happening and the sight of Freddie strung tight as a bow as he struggled for it, his groans muffled by the towel underneath him... He bites back a curse as he thrusts deep. Freddie is so soft and pliant underneath him now, but he hisses through his teeth. 

"I can stop", Roger says, silently praying that he won't be put to the test. He pushes in that tiny bit deeper, his hips flush against Freddie's arse now. Oh god. "Please don't make me stop", he adds, knowing he's being very selfish, that it’s unfair to ask, but…

Freddie pushes back weakly, taking him that little bit deeper.

"Fuck", Roger breathes and he can feel the shiver going through Freddie's body. He wants to see his face, but no way is he going to stop to change position now. But if he turns them just a little, he can at least hold him to him and caress his front, reach as much of him as possible.

It takes him a second to realise that what he's been touching there is Freddie's very wet, very erect cock. How is that possible? It's only been a minute or two. But whatever is going on, Freddie is rubbing himself against him, tiny urgent sounds escaping his throat and his fingers clutching the towel. Roger whispers sweet nothings in his ear as he starts moving again, a bit more purposeful this time, and slides his hand over Freddie's cock. Freddie groans shockingly loud in the quiet room.

Wanting to hear more of that, Roger picks up his speed, the depth of his thrusts, revelling in the knowledge that no one else can make Freddie feel this way, no one else ever has. A sweet tingling sensation gathers low in his belly and he inhales deeply, taking in the scent of Freddie’s sweat, his skin, the faint trace massage oil still permeating the air and just like that, he is there. He curls forward slightly, whispering Freddie's name over and over again as cock pulses his release deep inside Freddie.

Somehow he manages to keep his hand going on Freddie's cock all the way through and he picks up his speed as soon as he can think clearly again. He manages a couple more thrusts with his cock, sensitive though it is, and when he twists his fist on the tip of Freddie's cock, he comes all over the towel and Roger's hand, mouth falling open in a silent scream. 

Only their harsh breathing is audible in the room. After a couple of minutes, Roger pulls out and rolls onto his back, almost falling to the floor when he forgets that they're on a small bench, not a proper bed. He turns and plasters his front all over Freddie's back. "Are you alright", he whispers, sneaking his arms around Freddie again.

Freddie shrugs. 

Which isn't a good answer. Roger’s stomach drops. "Did I hurt you?" 

Another shrug, then a shake of the head.

Roger tries to push himself up on his elbows, to roll Freddie around so he can see his face, but Freddie traps the arms Roger’s got wrapped around him, making it impossible for him to move. 

"Please", Freddie murmurs, a bit slurred. "Just like that. Just for a minute."

Hearing his voice even though it’s wrecked, knowing that he still wants to have him close is a relief. He tightens his arms around Freddie and buries his nose in the crook of his neck. “Of course”, he whispers. “As long as you want.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, big thanks to my wonderful beta @nastally!

##### B-deck, 11.30 pm

The night is beautiful - clear, crisp, cold, with the stars shining brightly above them. Freddie has bundled up in White-Star-Line-blankets against the cold, but Roger’s body pressed against his side is warmer than the rough wool.

They’ve found a bench in a quiet, hidden corner of the boat deck that provides a spectacular view of the endless night stretching out in front of the ship. The red glow of a burning match illuminates Roger’s face as he lights his cigarette. Freddie’s heart is light and heavy with something he can’t name.

"Do you ever miss them”, he asks, before he can check his impulse.

"Who?" Roger shakes the match until the flame dies and takes a drag of his cigarette.

"Your family."

Roger lets the smoke trail out of his mouth slowly. "Yes”, he says finally without looking at Freddie.

That’s not an invitation to talk, but suddenly Freddie must know. "Why did you run away?"

"Told you. No future in shoemaking for me." Roger offers him the cigarette and Freddie takes it, but doesn’t raise it to his mouth. He rolls it back and forth between his fingers instead.

"But you still would have been in school by then."

Roger shrugs. "Didn't find that too exciting either."

Despite their closeness, despite the shared cigarette, Freddie feels the distance widening between them. Earlier it had felt like they were one soul, like nothing could ever separate them. Now he realises how little they actually know about each other.

They’ve met only four days ago. Four days.

They need more than that. They _deserve_ more than that.

After the ship lands, Freddie will be busy with his new family, of course, the wedding preparations, getting settled into business (he tries to ignore how every single one of these thoughts settles like a clump of lead in the bottom of his stomach). But they'll still be in the same city, although in very different parts of it. Perhaps...

"I've been thinking." Freddie's heart beats faster as he considers the idea. "I’ve been thinking that you could, once I'm settled in... I'll have the means to keep some personal staff in my employ. A, a valet or a private secretary. A largely formal position, of course", he hastens to add. There is no reason to think Roger would want to spend his life as his valet. "You'd be free to set your own schedule, practice music, take care of the car perhaps..." He trails off as he sees Roger’s eyebrows disappear under his shaggy fringe.

"Oh yes, and perhaps I could drive your wife to the tailor’s in the afternoon”, Roger adds. His tone is light and conversational, but there’s a sharp, unpleasant note in his voice, “and entertain your children while you retire with her in the evening and then… oh yes, and then serve Mr Wadia his Scotch in the parlour.”

“That’s not…”

“And if I'm very lucky, maybe I even get to meet you once in a while for a quick tumble behind the garage, is that what you had in mind?"

"That's not what I meant." Freddie's cheeks redden with indignation and embarrassment in equal parts.

"But that's what it would be." Roger’s voice is quiet now, but that only adds to the sting of his words.

Freddie is frantically searching for a rebuttal, but all the protestations he can come up with ring hollow even in his own mind. And even if Roger consented to his plan, how could he drag another man into a life he himself wishes he could escape?

Roger takes the cold cigarette from Freddie’s fingers and lights it up again. He shakes his head. “That’s no life for me.”

Freddie tries to ignore the cruel sting of rejection. "What do you want to do then?"

Roger shrugs. "New York should keep me entertained for a while. And then..." He leans back on the bench and closes his eyes. "Who knows? Maybe I'll win a ticket back to England. Or South America. India..."

Something very close to jealousy rears in Freddie's chest, but he tries to suppress it as the selfish instinct that it is. A caring man would not begrudge a friend his life of exploration and adventure. He arranges his features into a practised smile. "Sounds lovely."

"Now.” Roger’s elbow nudges him almost accidentally. “If business ever brings you to Hell’s Kitchen or Calcutta or wherever I'm going to end up", he says, "I wouldn't mind if you inquired after me. If you wanted to."

"Inquired after you?" Freddie's smile fills out into something more genuine.

"Hmm. Start your search in the shabbiest backyard gambling den you can find." Roger's expression softens as well. He flicks the cigarette away and cocks his head at Freddie. “If you dare.”

Freddie’s heart beats a little faster. Roger wants to see him again. Perhaps he only said it to take the sting out of his earlier, harsh words, perhaps he’ll make sure that Freddie won’t ever find him. But the look on his face makes it impossible for Freddie to not believe him. "I will", he says and reaches out to brush his fingers very lightly over Roger's.

The moment is broken by the ringing of a bell and shouts from the crow's nest high above them.

For one heartstopping moment, Freddie thinks they’ve been discovered, that watchful, hateful eyes have been spying on them from the dark, just waiting for him to make that one wrong move.

But then he realises the frantic activity on the bridge is completely unconcerned with them. Through the windows, Freddie sees officers speaking into telephones and pulling levers and picking up looking glasses. Freddie forces his eyes away from the brightly lit bridge and peers over the railing into the darkness ahead, following the gaze of the crew men out on deck.

First there is nothing but the velvety blackness of a quiet, frosty night on the North Atlantic.

And then it’s there.

A pale, ragged shape appearing like a spectre out of the darkness, silent and grim.

"Lord Almighty", he whispers.

"What", Roger asks. "What is it? Oh."

It's huge. Freddie knows, in theory, that icebergs can be huge, but if he ever thought about them at all, he'd always pictured them as somewhat picturesque, gently floating snowdrifts. Now it is immediately, acutely clear why the captain had insisted on a lookout. This thing looks like something that can shatter steel like spun glass.

Freddie has barely had time to realise this when he notices something else: The iceberg looming in front of the ship is growing bigger by the second. No. Not growing. Getting closer.

"Why aren't we turning", he whispers.

"We are", Roger says, his voice just as low. "Listen."

Freddie feels more than hears the groan the ship gives as the machines work to steer it around. With infinite slowness, the bow begins to move port side. Freddie tries to gauge the distance, their speed, the rate of turning, an erratic equation that is impossible for him to solve. Every second he expects to feel the impact as steel crashes into ice, but from moment to moment, the barrier of ice just grows and grows until it fills the entirety of his view. He keeps his eyes fixed on the foremost point of the bow as it clears the first jagged edges of the iceberg.

Roger lets out a harsh breath and takes his hand. Fear of discovery doesn't even cross Freddie’s mind - there can't be a soul on deck whose eyes are not transfixed on the grotesque view before them.

The iceberg glides in eerie silence along the starboard side. Next to him, Roger is still strung like a bow and Freddie opens his mouth to say a few reassuring words when he is almost thrown off the bench by a brutal jolt that shakes the mighty steel body of the ship. A pained shriek of tortured metal fills the night.

They grip the arm rests to balance against the tremors that rattle the floor under their feet. The impact causes chunks of ice to fall onto the lower deck of the ship, where they burst into splinters. A group of men watching the spectacle from a place close to the railing stagger backwards to keep from getting hit.

Finally, the shaking subsides and a heavy silence falls. The iceberg floats back into obscurity behind the ship like a ghostly apparition. It looks completely unscathed. It’s gone so quickly that just a minute later, the whole episode seems like a figment of the imagination.

Laughter drifts up from the deck below, where the men are now playing soccer with chunks of ice. Roger quickly lets go of Freddie’s hand, and not a moment too early.

A young man in full evening dress hurries out of the first-class entrance. He’s got an astonished smile on his face as he leans over the railing. "Say, did I miss the fun," he yells at the men below him.

Freddie feels shaky and light-headed. That hadn't been much fun in his book. He takes a look at Roger. “That was close”, he says.

“Bloody close”, Roger agrees. Then he chuckles a bit nervously. “Guess you don’t get to see something like that every day. That thing was gigantic.”

Freddie shivers as he recalls the spooky encounter, the tremors running through the ship.

Roger puts a hand on his back. "Are you getting cold? Come on, let’s head inside."

Freddie nods and gets up on unsteady legs. “I could use a brandy or two right about now.”

“By George, yes”, Roger sighs and falls into step beside him.

As they hurry along the deck towards the first-class entrance, Freddie can see a group of men hurrying towards the bridge. He recognises Captain Smith and Thomas Andrews among them.

“Do you think it was serious”, he asks, trying not to let his voice betray his concern.

Roger shrugs. “It felt pretty bad”, he says. “But it's a big ship. And I reckon it’s built for things like that.”

That’s true, Freddie thinks. The engineers knew that the ship would travel the North Atlantic, they must have made sure that it can withstand an iceberg. The impact had been startling, but there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with the ship, as they're still gliding calmly along the water.

Roger pulls open the entrance door. "And if there’s been damage, they're probably already working to fix it."

 _I built you a strong ship_. As Freddie remembers Thomas Andrews' words to his sister, the knot in his stomach loosens a little. “Yes. You’re probably right.”

Roger’s smile still looks a bit shaky, but the colour has returned to his face as he leads them down the corridor, past groups of elegantly dressed passengers whispering furtively among themselves. “Let’s get that brandy", he says. “And d'you reckon we can scrounge up something to eat, too?"

* * *

“What on earth…”

Roger almost runs into Freddie as his steps falter briefly. When he follows Freddie’s gaze, he understands what made him stop: The door to his suite is standing ajar.

“Maybe the stewards are making the rounds to inform everyone about the accident,” he suggests. There had been stewards all over the corridors, reassuring nervous passengers (and giving him dirty looks as he went past in his well-worn clothes).

Freddie doesn’t look convinced. “Perhaps”, he says and makes for the door.

Two men are standing in the parlour of Freddie's suite. Cy Wadia, an expression of grim satisfaction on his face, and - even more worryingly - the Master-At-Arms. Roger stops in the doorway, his throat suddenly tight and dry. His instincts scream at him to turn around and run, but Freddie’s stepped right inside and whatever this is about, he can’t just leave him alone with this.

Freddie puts his hands on his hips and glares at Cy. "What's the meaning of this?"

"There you are." Cy takes two quick steps towards Freddie and takes him by the arm, tugging him further away from Roger. “How good to see you up and well again.”

His gaze drifts over Freddie's shoulder and he locks eyes with Roger. It's the gaze of a man looking at a beetle to be crushed. "And your little pal."

Roger squares his jaw and holds his gaze. He’s not going to back down.

A smirk appears on Cy’s face as he turns his head to look at the coffee table. Automatically, Roger follows his gaze.

There’s a sheet of paper lying upside down. It’s just the size of his sketch pad.

Bloody hell. Surely Freddie hadn't just left the drawing lying around? No, Roger is sure that he'd put it in his safe. Did Cy have a key? Did Freddie forget to lock it? Roger tries his best to keep his face neutral even as his brain is working feverishly.

The Master-At-Arms clears his throat. "You might want to close the door."

Again, Roger considers turning and running. He's fast and by now he knows the layout of the ship pretty well. If he finds Brian, or John, they might help him hide.

But suddenly he is seized by hands on his arms and back. Roger whips his head around to find himself face-to-face with that stone-faced valet of Cy’s, Lovejoy. “Come on”, he says and steers him forward.

Roger tries to stay put, arms and legs stiff and uncooperative, but it only makes him stumble. The door clicks shut and his moment to run is gone. All he can do now is bluff, lie, deny. Whatever is necessary to protect himself and, more importantly, Freddie.

Freddie seems to have caught himself a bit. He shakes Cy’s arm off and walks over to the Master-At-Arms. Freddie must have noticed the drawing as well, but his posture radiates righteous indignation, not guilt.

"You just _cannot_..." Freddie starts with a shout, but breaks off and lowers his voice to a normal speaking volume, although Roger can hear it shaking with barely controlled anger. "How dare you break into my suite?"

"Sir." The Master-At-Arms doesn't move an inch. "I have been called here by the legal occupant of this suite", he nods at Cy, "to investigate allegations of... a number of serious offences."

Freddie is white as a sheet but he doesn't move away. "Mr Bailey, This is outrageous. I demand you leave at once."

"Sir, I cannot disregard the evidence that has been uncovered by Mr Wadia."

"Evidence?"

Bailey gestures at the paper on the drawing table.

"It's a drawing", Freddie says. "A work of art." He crossed his arms, making a good impression of the offended innocent. "Are you going to arrest Monsieur Rodin next? Or Michelangelo? Have you seen the _Ignudi_?"

Despite everything, Roger has to bite his lip to suppress a grin.

"I have not, sir, and do not intend to. Your _artist_ , however", the Master-At-Arms' gaze wanders briefly to Roger, "has frequently been seen in your company these last days."

"We are _friends_! Mr Taylor has saved my life and I fully intend to repay his kindness with..." Freddie cuts himself off and gives a dramatic flourish of his hand, as if to flick away the accusations like an annoying insect. "I will not waste another breath defending myself and Mr Taylor from baseless slanders."

Good, Freddie, very good. Roger wouldn’t have taken him for a good liar, but he manages to exude an air of righteous indignation mixed with incredulity that might just work on an unimaginative idiot like Bailey.

"Oh yes, Mr Taylor, the selfless hero", Cy's hateful, polished voice cuts in. "Have you accounted for all of your cufflinks?"

Unfortunately, Cy’s act isn't bad either. He manages to look like a concerned and worried brother-in-law rather than like the smug self-satisfied bastard that he is.

Freddie bristles. "I'm still hearing nothing but baseless accusations."

"We have found this White Star Line steward's uniform among his possessions." Bailey nods at a folded set of garment on a side table.

Roger’s stomach churns at the sight. Of course. If they have no scruples breaking into Freddie's suite, his own cabin wouldn't be off limits either. He knows he should have returned the uniform, but then it’s always a good idea to have a disguise at hand.

"What..." Freddie's voice wavers. For the first time, he really looks at Roger, a pleading, questioning look in his eyes.

"I borrowed it", Roger says quietly. Cy's mouth twists in a triumphant grin. "I was going to return it once we reached New York."

He doesn’t give a damn what Wadia and Bailey think about him. If they’ve already made up their minds, he won’t stand a chance anyway. But the thought that Freddie might think him a common thief... No. If this is the last time they see each other, he doesn't want Freddie to remember him as a fraud.

"Of course you did." Wadia's voice is syrupy with the patronizing generosity of someone who knows they've already won.

Roger works hard to keep his face impassive. Any reaction he gave would only help Wadia. Say nothing. Keep calm and say nothing.

Wadia looks questioningly at the Master-At-Arms, who nods briefly. “Search him.”

Before Roger can react, Lovejoy has reached into the pockets of his jacket. “Hey!” He tries to twist away, but there’s already the glittering tinkle of metal and gemstones in the air.

Damn it all to hell! They’re framing him. They trying to fucking frame him!

“Did you intend to give that back too?” Wadia’s smug, sickly-sweet voice reaches his ears as if through a haze.

Roger ignores him. He’s not important. “Don’t believe them”, he says and turns to Freddie, who looks like he might be knocked over by a feather. “I didn’t do it, I swear, I’d never…”

“You might want to keep your mouth shut now”, Cy suggests sweetly.

Freddie's eyes wander between the necklace and him and Roger can see the wheels turning in his head. “But why…”

Oh god, he can’t have Freddie believe this. That he tried to charm his way into his heart just to steal from him. That this is all this ever was. “Freddie, please, you know I haven’t done this, you _know_ me!”

“And in a number of interesting ways, I’m sure”, Cy drawls and the Master-At-Arms' eyes almost bug out of his head at the insinuation.

Freddie looks panicked now and Roger bites his tongue to keep more words from tumbling out. He’s running right into their trap. And pulling Freddie in along with him. The more he appeals to him, the more he forces Freddie to choose sides. He cannot do this to him.

Cy turns to Freddie now. “It's the farthest thing from my mind to slander my sister's fiancé. But after the worrying reports I received", he nods at Lovejoy, "I knew I had to act. For both yours and my sister's sake."

"Reports?” Freddie visibly forces himself to focus on Cy and keep his voice stable. “From a man who's been fired from Pinkerton for blackmail and fraud?"

"Mr Lovejoy left Pinkerton of his own accord", Cy answers smoothly. "He has been a most trustworthy servant and I won't have you smear his reputation for fear of what he's seen."

Freddie’s got his arms crossed so tightly over his chest he’s practically hugging himself. God, all Roger wants to do is walk over there and take him in his arms and tell him everything will be alright. "That's not what I..."

"Mr Lovejoy has reported to me that he has seen Mr Taylor sneak in and out of your suite several times. He has also seen the two of you dancing arm in arm during a party in the third-class common room."

"He's making up stories." Freddie is standing his ground, but it’s quickly turning into quicksand.

The Master-At-Arms speaks up. "Would you mind telling me where you've been between 9.30 and 11.30 tonight?"

Oh god, they know about the bath. Lovejoy must have had them under near-constant surveillance.

Freddie steadfastly manages not to look at Roger. "Yes, I would”, he snaps. “I am not going to be interrogated in my own suite in the middle of an emergency."

The deflection doesn't work for a second.

"I am asking because there's been a break-in at the Turkish Bath”, Bailey continues calmly. “And you and Mr Taylor have been seen exiting the premises around 11.20. Together."

Freddie grits his teeth. "I don’t… I didn't..."

Cy steps a bit closer to Freddie. "At first, I didn't want to believe it, of course, those rumours. But I owe it to my sister to make sure the man she marries is not a... I don't even want to say it." He pinches the bridge of his nose as if to draw himself together.

Freddie is just standing there, the muscles in his cheeks working. He looks like the only thing keeping him upright is that he doesn’t want to give Cy the satisfaction of seeing him crumple.

"I know, sometimes temptation is stronger than even the most virtuous soul", Cy continues slowly, practically leering at Roger from out of the corners of his eyes. "And he is a pretty one, even a normal man can see that." Cy lowers his voice to a conspiratorial murmur.

Roger notes with satisfaction that he is staying well out of arm's reach. Probably best for his nose, if Freddie's clenched fists are anything to go by. "And you had so much to deal with. The company's financial troubles, your father's health concerns, your mother's reputation, your sister's prospects..."

Freddie stares at Cy. "You bloody bastard", he whispers, all pretence gone. "If you say one more word about my sister I'll..."

"It can drive the strongest man to actions he would never even consider under other circumstances. I don't wish to judge you."

There is a pause. It’s as if the entire room is waiting for Freddie's reaction. Roger is silently praying to anyone who might listen that he didn’t just imagine the offer he heard in Wadia’s words.

"What do you want?" Freddie says, finally.

Wadia looks like the cat who got the cream. He’s got Freddie in the palm of his hand. He can lay down his terms, terms he knows his future brother-in-law won't be able to reject.

"I only want what’s best for all of us”, Wadia smarms and Roger digs his fingernails into his palms to keep from tackling the man and smashing his face into the side table. “There is no reason for any of this to leave this room. Mr Bailey will make sure that you'll be spared temptation henceforth and we can all forget about your... moment of weakness." He lowers his voice even more. "And we'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

Freddie's eyes flicker to Roger, who makes damn sure to keep his face stoic. "What will happen to him?"

The Master-at-Arms takes over. "For the remaining two days of the journey, Mr Taylor will stay in one of the guard rooms. On charges of theft, you understand." Of course, he and Cy had hashed it all out beforehand. "One of my men will keep an eye on him at all times. He'll be well kept and treated decently."

"What happens after we land?"

"I assume you won’t press charges on the theft of the necklace?” When Freddie mutely shakes his head, Bailey continues. “Once we reach New York, we will drop the charges and he may leave the ship a free man."

"I have your word?"

"You have my word."

Freddie nods slowly. He keeps his focus on Bailey and ignores Cy as much as possible. "There's been a crash."

"A minor mishap, I am sure."

"But if..."

"For God's sake, Bulsara, get a grip. What could a bit of ice do to a swimming colossus like the Titanic?" Now that he's had his big victory, Wadia seems intent on getting the whole affair over with. He looks like he’s on the verge of marching out the door and leaving it to the Master-at-Arms to work out the details. Impatient for his evening Brandy, perhaps?

"For as long as Taylor is in my keep, I take responsibility for his safety”, the Master-At-Arms says.

Freddie nods and a bit of tension leaves his body. "Good." His eyes flicker to Roger again, but Roger looks down at the floor before their eyes can meet. This is not about him, he reminds himself.

“Are we agreed then”, Wadia asks impatiently.

“We are”, Freddie says and Wadia claps his hands.

“Excellent”, he exclaims, and he looks genuinely happy, as if everything was just marvellous.

The Master-at-Arms walks over to Roger, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I assume handcuffs won’t be necessary?”

Roger shakes his head and lets himself be walked towards the door, all fight gone out of him.

It’s for the best, he tells himself. It’s a better deal than he could have hoped for. Better than Freddie could have hoped for. And he doesn’t expect, doesn’t _want_ Freddie to put his future on the line for him.

They would have had to say their goodbyes sooner or later. All those words about seeing each other after they arrive in New York, they were all pipe dreams. But to have those two remaining days taken away from him, it’s like looking forward to the last piece of pie after a long day at work only to find the shelf empty when coming home. Only a hundred times worse.

“Come on, son”, Bailey says as he leads him to the door.

Roger tries to keep his eyes straight ahead, but finds he doesn’t have it in him to leave without one last look, one token that what they've done these last few days hasn't been a lie. One reminder that everything they said, everything they did, had been real.

But Freddie keeps his gaze directed at the wall as he passes by, not moving a muscle.

Roger tries to find the right words to say, to let Freddie know that he is not a fraud. If only Freddie would look at him, meet his eyes one last time. _Look at me. Even if you don’t believe me, at least give me that. Just one look.  
_

But his head doesn’t turn.

Instead of warm brown eyes, the last thing Roger sees as he’s led out of the suite is Cy Wadia pouring himself a glass of brandy.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, @nastally, for your comments and corrections! You're the best <3
> 
> We're getting into that part of the story where tragic things start happening. I'm not going to give particular warnings, but if there's anything in the tags you're worried about, feel free to message me @quirkysubject on tumblr!

##### 12.30 am

"D'you think we'll have to stay out there for long?” His mother takes the life vest handed to her by the harried-looking steward and unceremoniously passes it on to Kash. “It’s getting rather late as it is.”

“I would advise you take a coat, ma’am”, the steward says. “It’s rather a chilly night, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll get the coats, ma”, Kash says after a beat and hurries back into their suite, vest tucked awkwardly under her arm.

Freddie looks after her and belatedly realises he should have offered to go. But his reactions are off, slow, as if he were half-asleep. His mind feels like it’s packed in cotton wool, sluggish and not quite connected to the here and now. He stays standing next to his mother, watching small groups of people - most of them in their evening wear - unhurriedly making their way to the decks.

“This is ridiculous”, his mother says as yet another life vest is given to her. But then she pauses and looks up at Freddie. “Don’t you think so, Farrokh?”

Freddie takes a second until he realises he’s been asked a question. "I don't know. I was..." He cuts himself off just in time. At the time of the accident, he was supposedly languishing in his suite with an upset stomach. He can hardly tell her he’d actually been on deck and seen the impact. The last thing he needs is more questions. He’s had enough of those for a lifetime. “The ship was badly shaken. I could feel it.”

She puts a hand on his arm. Her all-seeing eyes are wandering over his face. “Is something the matter?”

God, how he wishes this night were already over. This entire journey, in fact. After Cy had returned to the smoking-room to celebrate his victory, Freddie had sunk down on the sofa. He hadn’t even poured himself a drink, he’d just sat there, watching his hands shaking as if they were those of another. He couldn't imagine ever getting up again, but then Kash and his mum had appeared, alarmed by the stewards telling everyone to get up on deck.

How he had managed not to implode under the weight of all the things that had happened today he doesn’t know.

He shakes his head. “It’s just a bit worrying, isn’t it? All this?” He indicates the stewards with their life vests, the occasional stone-faced officer hurrying through.

A shadow of doubt flickers over his mother’s features, but just as she’s about to say something, Kash returns with their heavy coats and fur-trimmed gloves.

“Shall we then?” His mother’s voice sounds calm and confident as she indicates the elevator.

Kash takes his arm as they follow her, holding him back a few steps.

"No one’s telling me what’s going on”, Kash whispers. “It’s all ‘just a precaution’ and ‘don’t you worry, miss’.” She rolls her eyes. “Do you know anything?”

“I, er… There was an iceberg. Apparently.” _Roger’s hand in his as it glides by._ He drives his fingernails into his palm.

“An iceberg?” He can see her thoughts go back to the tour of the ship they got the other day. The ice warning Captain Smith had received.  
_Roger confronting him in the deserted gymnasium._

“It’s what I heard”, Freddie mumbles.

Kash looks around, her expression worried. “Freddie, where's..."

“We’d better get up on deck, don’t we”, he says and hurries them both towards the elevator where their mother is already waiting.  
He cannot think about him, much less talk about him. Not now. Everything had been so well just an hour ago, a perfect little fantasy. A fantasy that had shattered into a million sharp-edged pieces.

On the boat deck, seamen and officers scurry to uncover and ready the boats. The steam venting from the pipes on the funnels overhead makes a horrendous din. There is a lot of shouting and running about as some of the crew seem confused by the mechanisms needed to lower the boats.

Through the clusters of bemused passengers and crew, Mr Andrews is running over the deck, passing them right by, but he doesn't spare one glance for them. Instead, he bears down on the seamen and shouts at them over the roar of steam hissing. "Turn to the right! Pull the falls taut before you unchock. Have you never had a boat drill?"

A young, burly seaman pauses his efforts and stands to attention. "No sir! Not with these new davits, sir."

The architect looks aghast.

"If anyone knows what's happening, it's him", Kash says. Before Freddie can react, she’s called out, "Mr Andrews!"

The man hesitates a second, looking between the crewmen trying to follow his orders and the other passengers. But he motions Kash and Freddie closer. When he speaks, it’s in a harried, low voice, making sure no one nearby can overhear.

“Get to a boat”, he says. “Now.”

“What is happening”, Kash asks. “Please.”

"I don’t know how to say this, but..." He looks around the boat deck, the sparse clusters of passengers standing around. "The ship will sink."

Kash's eyes grow wide. "Are you certain?"

"Yes. In an hour, maybe two, all of this", he gestures towards the shining lights of the upper decks, "will be at the bottom of the Atlantic."

"My God." Kash’s voice is barely more than a whisper.

It sounds absurd. It _is_ absurd. The ship is so big, so sturdy. Freddie had felt the impact, but surely it cannot just _sink_.

"Please. Tell only who you must. I don't want to be responsible for a panic. And get to a boat quickly." He fixes Freddie's eyes with his own. "You remember what I told you about the boats?"

Freddie nods, dazed, but Mr Andrews has already turned and hurried back to his work.

"Freddie." Kash's arm is on his. There’s a note of panic in her voice now. "Freddie, where is Roger?"

_I take responsibility for his safety._

Freddie pats her hand and shakes his head. "He's going to be alright."

He is in the Master-At-Arm's charge. It is his duty to see that no harm comes to his prisoners. He's probably safer than most others on the ship. His thoughts wander to Brian, to John. But he can’t think like that. He’s got to take care of his family now. "Come on. Let's get you to a boat."

They join with their mother, who chides them for running off. Close by, a young officer organises the rescue effort. He has managed to hoist a boat onto the davits and is helping passengers into it. It is filled to about a third with women and children - the only man on board is a seaman to commandeer the oars. Apparently, they are serious about getting the women and children to safety first. The officer directs the seamen on two sides of the boat to lower it into the water, but the descent is uneven and the boat sways and jerks on its way down, accompanied by the shrieks of startled passengers.

His mother eyes the scene suspiciously. "You don’t seriously expect me to get into one of those?"

"I'm sure it's perfectly safe”, Freddie says, just as the prow drops precariously low.

"They'll put us in these silly little boats to freeze, and then we'll all be back on board in time for breakfast." She sounds disdainful, but when the next boat is ready and an officer offers her a seat on it, she graciously allows him to assist her climb into it.

“What about my son”, she asks, apparently nonchalantly.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s not possible at this point”, the officer replies. “He will have to wait his turn.”

“Of course.” She nods and sits down, clutching her shawl closer around her shoulders, then fixes Freddie with her large eyes. "Make sure you join us as soon as possible, Farrokh." Her tone is unconcerned, but he can feel her worry beneath her calm demeanour.

"Yes, mother." It’s not like he is _choosing_ to linger behind. But it’s only right, women and children first.

"I expect to see you at breakfast then." She reaches out with her hand and he is allowed to get just close enough to lightly squeeze the tips of her fingers. Are they saying goodbye? Or is this going to be an absurd little episode they’re going to laugh about come morning? He cannot tell at all.

"Of course. Save a scone for me." He lets go and steps back. His mother, poised and elegant, in that rickety little boat. It’s a ridiculous sight.

There’s a small kerfuffle as a man tries to follow his wife into the boat, but is held back by the officer.

"Only women and children at this point”, he repeats. Then he turns to Kash. “Miss? Would you step this way, please?”

Kash hesitates. "What does he mean, 'at this point'", she whispers to Freddie. "There aren't enough boats and still they're letting them go half full?"

Freddie shrugs. "Maybe they'll return later to collect more people, once they're in the water. Or they transfer the passengers to another ship close by in multiple crossings."

Kash looks out into the starry night. There’s no ship in sight. "I'm worried, Freddie. Really worried."

Right next to them, a father is hugging children, one no more than a baby, before handing them over to a seaman. They are lifted into the arms of a young woman already seated in the boat, tears running down her cheeks. The father waves at his family. "It's only for a little while", he says, trying to keep his face cheerful. "This boat is for the women and children. There will be another boat for the daddies, and I'll be on that one."

Kash can't turn her eyes away at the scene.

"Miss?" The officer is gesturing at her to climb aboard.

"Come on, Kash." Freddie gently takes her elbow and tries to tug her forward, but she remains rooted to the spot.

"Please get into the boat, Miss", the officer says, clearly getting annoyed now.

Kash tears her eyes away from the father who is still fighting to hold back tears and turns to the officer. "Give him my spot", she says, gesturing towards the man. "Please, I can wait. I’ll take the next one."

"Women and children only."

"Kashmira", his mother says sternly. "Get in the boat. Do not make a scene."

Kash gestures to the crowd. "There are no other women and children here! There's barely twenty people in that boat! Please..."

"Madame", the officer looks like he is close to the end of his tether. "You can board the boat, or you can stay here. Either way, right now, only women and children are allowed aboard." He repeats the phrase like a mantra.

"Kash." Freddie waits until she looks at him. "Please."

"Do you expect me to just sit there and row away while... while..."

"There are other boats. Other officers, who let men board. But he will not go looking for one as long as the boat with his children in it isn't safe and away."

Kash presses her lips together in anger and frustration. Before she can lash out, Freddie puts his hands on her shoulders. "Please, Kash. Do it for me." He leans forward and whispers, "And look. The Countess of Rothes is in your boat. She's friends with Lady Duff-Gordon - and I'm sure introductions can be forgone in an emergency?" He says it with a levity he doesn’t feel in the slightest.

"Freddie!" She smacks his arm and glares at him, like she can’t believe he’s thinking about that right now. Then she looks at the boat, the women and children shivering in the cold night air, and takes a deep breath, schooling her features into the contained mask of a proper young lady. "Promise me you’ll have a drink with me Tuesday night."

He takes a moment to understand. Right, that blasted party she’d insisted of coming to. "I promise."

"I'll hunt you down if you don't."

"I know." He puts on the warmest, most confident smile he’s capable of.

She kisses his cheeks and then climbs into the boat, keeping her head down so she won’t have to look at the men waiting patiently for their turn.  
"Lower away!" The officer is anxious to get the boat down, and this time the descent goes much more smoothly.

Slowly, the faces of his mother and sister disappear behind the hull.

After the boat is gone, Freddie doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Kash and Ma are safe, that’s the main thing. And it doesn’t look like much is happening at all. The ship is lying still in the water. It doesn’t _feel_ like it’s sinking. Perhaps Mr Andrews had been exaggerating the danger?

He should probably get in line for a boat. Instead, he ambles across the deck to the starboard side, watching everything as if it were part of a play he has no part in. There isn’t any sense of panic, and although the efforts of the crew look fumbling and disorganised, they are still making progress in getting the boats to water. On this side as well, the order of women and children only is strictly upheld.

But shouldn’t the deck be crowded by now? He thinks back to the night of the third-class party, the mass of people crammed into that room. Where are all the steerage passengers? Perhaps there is another deck with boats just for them? He can’t remember being told about it, but he hadn’t paid that much attention during the tour and...

“Stand back. Stand _back!_ ”

Freddie’s head whips around at the voice. There’s the burly form of the Master-At-Arms, barking at two young men with suitcases to stay away from a boat while a young officer - he can't be any older than Freddie - commandeers his men to get it ready for lowering. Freddie’s heart speeds up at the sight of Mr Bailey. He looks around desperately, straining his eyes to find a slim, blond figure in a ragged suit.

He isn’t there. Disappointment cuts through him like a knife. He didn’t realise how much he was hoping to see him just one more time. Even if he lied to Freddie, even if he stole from him. It can’t _all_ have been an act, can it?

But another, even more frightening feeling creeps up at him. If Roger is not with Mr Bailey, then where is he?

Bailey takes a few steps towards the officer's mess and consults a handful of notes.

Freddie doesn't hesitate another second. He sprints towards Mr Bailey until the man looks up in alarm. "Where's Mr Taylor", Freddie demands.

Bailey regards him a disdainful look. "He's safe."

Freddie grips the man’s lapel. "Where!" Some part of him is aware that this is dangerous, that Mr Bailey _knows_ , that he can ruin Freddie with a word.

"He's waiting for a place in a boat.” The Master-At-Arms shakes off his hand like a bothersome fly and steps aside. “He'll have to wait for his turn until the women and children are off-board, like everybody else."

"Then why", Freddie lowers his voice to an angry whisper, "isn't he here with you? He's your responsibility, you gave me your word."

"Mr Bulsara. There are over 2200 people aboard this ship. I cannot devote my time to babysitting one criminal."

"He's not a..." With great difficulty, Freddie reigns himself back in. Not the time for this discussion. "I'm going to ask you one more time: Where is he? And if I don't get an answer right this minute I swear I will drag you through every inch of this ship until we've found him or we've hit the bottom of the sodding Atlantic ocean."

Freddie can hardly believe what is coming out of his mouth. It’s an empty threat. A ridiculous one. Freddie doesn’t have the strength to do this, not with a hardened officer like Bailey, who can call up dozens of men with one blow of his whistle.

And Bailey knows that too. He takes a step away from Freddie, no longer bothering to hide his contempt. “Get out of my sight, _sir_ , before I’ll have you arrested too.”

“Please”, Freddie says and he hates the way his voice cracks. His facade is crumbling fast. He tries to hold onto it, but he can’t, it’s too much. “Please, Mr Bailey, just tell me where he is.”

The Master-At-Arms glares at him for another moment, then his eyes flicker to the bow of the ship, which lies visibly low in the water now. "Mr Wadia's valet offered to guard him", he says.

"What, Lovejoy?" Freddie’s stomach twists itself into knots. "You left him with..." His voice trails off. That man has the moral integrity of a sewer rat. If the time came to save his own skin, he wouldn't spare one thought for Roger.

The Master-At-Arms squares his jaw. "I have my duties here", he says defensively. "If a gentleman offers his help in an emergency like this, I'll not doubt his word."

His word, good grief. Bailey has probably been so relieved to hand over this responsibility that he hadn't thought too hard about how much Cy's word could be counted on. Bailey abandoned Roger to his fate at the first opportunity and Freddie just wants to beat him black and blue for that.

Screams rise up around him as a metallic groan emanates from deep within the ship and the lights flicker briefly. He looks at the water lapping against the windows of the lower decks. The reality of what is happening washes over him in an icy wave.

Roger is still in there.

_Roger is still in there._

Without another word, he whirls around and through the next entrance into the ship. He pushes through groups of men and women in evening wear, who are ordering their servants to prepare their cabins for the night as if they were expecting to return after an hour at the latest.

He realises belatedly that he has no idea where they would have taken Roger.

"Mr Bulsara!"

Freddie turns his head to see Mr Andrews hurrying towards him.

"Sir, didn’t you listen? You have to get on deck and in line for a boat right away. Just head this way, please, and..."

"What's the quickest way to get from here to the… the holding cells?”

The architect stares at him wide-eyed. "The _what_?”

“The holding cells”, Freddie repeats impatiently, feeling valuable seconds ticking away. Gods, how could he have wasted that much time. “Or wherever they’d put someone who… who committed a minor transgression.”

“Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear earlier, but this ship is _doomed_. You _must_..."

"No." Freddie puts every last ounce of determination in his voice. "I'll do this whether you help me or not. It'll take longer if you don't."

Andrews takes another long second. Then he shakes his head and exhales sharply. "The Master-At-Arm’s office. Take the elevator to the very bottom, go left through the crewmen's passage, then make a right."

"Bottom, left, right. Got it", Freddie repeats and takes off without sparing another glance for the architect. As he reaches the elevator, he finds it is still manned by an operator.

"Sorry, sir, the elevators are closed", he objects when Freddie steps inside.

"Take me down."

The operator looks at him as if he has lost his mind. "We can't go down, sir, there's..."

Freddie grabs his lapels and pushes him out. He pulls the grille shut and puts his hand on the operating handle. "Push forward to go down?"

The operator nods slowly, backing away. "Pull to go up."

Freddie pushes forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're looking for something fun to do, you can watch a [a computer simulation of the Titanic sinking in real-time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rs9w5bgtJC8), complete with a haunting soundscape and quotes of people involved.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack**   
>  [James Horner - Unable To Stay, Unwilling To Leave](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dODyFX8IjE&list=PL263CA745C8561855&index=8)
> 
> Thank you, @nastally, for keeping track of furniture, water levels and characters' names ;)

##### 1 am, E-Deck, Master-At-Arm’s Office

_Click. Roll. Catch._

The bullet rolls down the desk until it falls off the edge and into Lovejoy’s waiting hand. 

_Click. Roll. Catch._

Cy’s valet catches Roger’s eye and smirks. Then he pointedly puts the bullet down on the desk again, right next to his gleaming silver gun. 

Roger does his best to look unimpressed. He’s not going to give that tosser the satisfaction of seeing him unsettled. So he’s got a gun. It’s not like he can just _shoot_ Roger. Bailey or one of his men will be back soon. He’s just trying to be scary. 

A movement on his right catches Roger’s eye. For a split second, he’s grateful for the distraction that allows him to look away from that man and his mind games, but then his stomach drops as he realises what he’s seeing. 

It’s water lapping up against the porthole. 

The sound of a bullet being chambered makes his head whip around. 

Lovejoy gets up with a mirthless grin, gun in his hand, and takes a step towards Roger. 

Instinctively he tries to pull back, but the first thing Lovejoy had done when he’d taken over from Bailey was to cuff his wrists together around a water pipe running along the wall. The cold metal cutting into his wrists stops his efforts. 

“You know”, Lovejoy says in a conversational tone, “I believe this ship may sink.”

At that moment, Roger knows it’s true. He should have realised when the Master-At-Arms was called off to help with the evacuation of the ship (“Just a precaution”, the officer had said). He should have realised when he saw the first boat in the water, the first glare of the signal flare. He should have realised when the tilt of the ship became so marked that Jovejoy could let a bullet roll down the smooth surface. 

But it’s not in his nature to believe in the worst. 

Lovejoy comes to stand in front of him. “I've been asked to give you this small token of our appreciation.”

Roger’s vision goes to grainy grey dust as a fist is driven into his stomach. He doubles over, knees buckling, until the only thing holding him upright are the metal cuffs catching on the pipe. Breathe. He can’t breathe. 

“Compliments of Mr Cyrus Wadia”, Roger hears faintly through a haze of agony before the door falls close. 

He grits his teeth against the scream forcing its way out of him, but it doesn’t come because there’s no air left in his lungs. The muscles in his stomach are spasming with pain and for a moment he fears he’s going to be sick. He presses his head into the cool metal of the pipe, eyes squeezed shut, and prays for the pain and the nausea to go away. 

When he opens his eyes again, there’s a trickle of water creeping into the room underneath the door.

* * *

Icy seawater washes up to his thighs when the elevator reaches the bottom floor. 

He’d known it would be cold, but this is cold on a level he couldn’t have possibly imagined. It’s like an ice cube in liquid form pressing needle-sharp into every inch of his skin. Almost instantly he loses all feeling in his feet, making him stumble as he takes a few steps out of the elevator. 

To his left, the water level is rising. That must be where the front of the ship is. He saw it lying lower in the water when he’d been up on deck. How high would the water have risen further down the hall?

An image of Roger floating motionless in an endless black sea, face waxy and pale, intrudes into his mind, halting his movement. What if he’s too late?

The light reflecting in the water gives everything a ghostly blue-green glow. There’s not a soul around and the only noises are ominous creaking sounds and the rushing of water. He remembers the seemingly endless, maze-like corridors and realizes that he’s got no idea where exactly he is or what he’s doing.

Even if he manages to find Roger in time, even if they find their way back on deck, what then? They'll still have to find a spot on one of the lifeboats for him, and they're not letting any men in. This is a fool's errand. He cannot possibly… 

No, he can’t think like that. He has got to focus. 

He takes a deep breath to tamp down the panic. _Bottom, left through the crewmen's passage, then right._ Left, where the water gets ever deeper. The thought of letting the water swallow up more and more of his body as he wades down the corridor until he loses his footing and is washed away is enough to make him shake. Floating in the water had seemed harmless enough in the pool, but then he’d had Roger’s warmth folded around him, promising to keep him afloat. Now he’s all alone. 

He can’t do this. He wants to, he _should_ , but he _can’t_.

He looks back at the elevator. The power is still on. 

_Pull to go up._

* * *

The metal edge of the handcuffs bites into the skin of his hands but no matter how hard Roger pulls, they’re too tight to slip off. 

He shakes out his hands and looks around the office. He’s climbed onto the desk to stay out of the water that is rising in the room. The tilt of the ship - barely noticeable at first - has markedly increased over the last minutes. Something is happening. 

There’s no way around it. He _has_ to find a way to get out of these cuffs and get out of here. 

He gives the pipe an experimental kick. His heart speeds up when there is a little give where it is fixed to the wall. It’s not much, but he’ll try anything at this point. He puts one foot firmly against the wall, hooks his arms around the pipe as well as he can with his bound hands, and pulls. 

The fastenings don’t move an inch. 

He lets off and takes a few fortifying breaths to gather his strength. Then he throws himself against the pipe, pushing and pulling with everything he’s got, trying to wear the material out. But the steel bolts don’t budge. He swears and curses - the ship, his luck at poker, dutiful shipbuilders who won’t botch a single rivet - until sweat is running down his face. 

The water is up to the seat of the chair when he gives up, panting with effort. 

“Help”, he yells, pure fear making his voice raw and cracked. He clangs the cuffs against the metal pipe, but his efforts only make his desperate situation more clear to him. There’s no one here. These low levels of the ship must have been long deserted. And even if someone heard him, it’s not like people carry spare cuff keys or hacksaws around with them. 

Roger crouches down on the desk and tries to calm himself down. There’s nothing for it. If he is to get out of here, he has to find a way to do it on his own. 

He turns his attention back to the handcuffs. They're not that tight and by now his skin is slippery with sweat, but as much as he grits his teeth and pulls, he can’t get them over the thickest part. 

Back in London, he knew an illusionist who regularly escaped from handcuffs like it was nothing, as part of his routine or just to amuse his friends. Of course, that man had had the advantage of being born double-jointed and years of practice. All Roger has is a moderately high pain tolerance and a lack of alternatives.

Roger rubs his raw and reddened skin and helplessly watches the water rise ever higher. 

He might not make it out, he thinks, although he can’t comprehend it yet. 

The porthole is now completely engulfed by water. A little further off, he can see the shadowy outline of a lifeboat, the water stirred up by the oars. They’re getting the people off this ship at least. Freddie’s family will be in one of these. Brian, too. He’s clever, resourceful. He’ll have figured out what happened quickly and found his way up to the boat deck. Perhaps he is still with John even. 

And Freddie. 

He clings to that thought, to the memory of joyous laughter and dark eyes, as he braces himself for what is to come. 

At least Freddie is safe.

* * *

There is no right turn at the end of the corridor. There is only a small stairway leading down. 

Down into water that could be three feet deep or twenty. 

Freddie’s taken the plunge before he’s had time to think about it. When his scrabbling feet reach the floor, the water is up to his shoulders. Breathing is impossible. Icy water presses his chest together like a steel band. Only when his lungs are burning from lack of air does he manage a short, jerky gasp, and then another.

He forces his legs and arms into motion, half walking, half paddling up the hallway opening up to his right. He murmurs a small, half-forgotten prayer of relief when he realises that the water gets shallower the further he goes. 

"Roger", he yells but his voice is almost completely swallowed by the sound of rushing water around him. "Roger!"

Left and then right. He’s done that, he should be close now. 

“Roger!”

He frantically searches the doors, but there’s nothing to mark the Master-At-Arm’s office in the uniform white of the hallway. 

"Roger!" He calls out again, and his voice sounds shrill and desperate to his own ears. 

He’s at the end of the hallway and has to choose which way to turn. Perhaps Mr Andrews meant for him to keep taking right turns? It’s hard to think over the violent chatter of his own teeth. He takes some steps to the right and the water only seems to get deeper. 

He calls out again, but it’s hopeless. His courage fails and he stumbles to a halt. If Roger is somewhere here in that hallway, he’ll be...

"’lo?" 

Freddie whips his head around, trying to find out where that voice is coming from. “Is anyone here”, he cries at the top of his voice. It must be Roger, please, let it be Roger. 

"'m here!" 

It’s Roger’s voice, he’s sure of it, and it’s coming from behind him. He whirls around and starts running, water splashing up all around him. "Keep shouting. Where are you?"

There is a rhythmic metal clanging. "I'm here! I'm here! Help, please!"

Slogging through the water, it seems to take years until he makes it to the right door. It isn't locked, thank heavens, and Freddie pushes it open. 

Roger is crouched on a desk in the middle of the room. His arms are around a pipe running along the wall, wrists cuffed together. The water is already lapping at his feet. 

“It’s you.” Roger stares at him like he’s seen a ghost. “Bloody hell, it’s you.”

“Of course it’s me”, Freddie stutters. He’s found him. He’s actually found him! “What happened with-”

"What the hell are you doing here”, Roger shouts, his expression torn between relief and anger. 

It takes Freddie three steps to cross the room. He takes Roger's face in his hands and kisses him with messy, clumsy desperation. "Sorry, sorry, God, I'm so sorry, I know you didn’t do it, I should never have let them take you away," he whispers in between kisses. “I thought I'd never see you again."

After a few moments, Roger twists his mouth away and presses his forehead against Freddie's. His fingers dig into the front of Freddie’s shirt, keeping him close. “You bloody idiot”, he whispers. "You're supposed to be in a lifeboat."

Freddie shakes his head. "I couldn't."

Roger kisses him frantically, a groan escaping his throat. "Fuck, but I _am_ glad to see you", he whispers against Freddie’s lips. “Right, let’s get out of here.”

He holds out his cuffed hands. "Lovejoy took the key with him. There's a key holder on the wall opposite. See if you can find one that fits."

“Alright.” Freddie wades over to the key holder. Choosing the right key from the large collection is going to be a challenge, but surely there must be one among them that fits? As he works his way through the orderly rows, his hope falls quickly. A key for those cuffs would have to be small and silver, but those are all too large and made of brass. In desperation, he just takes the smallest ones he can find and brings it back to Roger, but of course, they don’t fit. 

Freddie turns to the desk, upending one drawer after the other, hoping in vain to see something small and silvery fall out of one. "There's nothing", he yells. His eyes frantically search the room, looking for something he overlooked. It _must_ be here!

“Freddie.” 

There’s a locked cabinet right next to the desk. It probably contains files and papers, but perhaps this is where Bailey keeps a spare handcuff key? He tears and the handle and when it doesn’t budge, kicks at the blasted thing but it just. Won’t. _Open._

“Freddie, look at me.”

Freddie stops, panting, propping himself up with his hands on the desk. 

When their eyes meet, Roger looks eerily calm "Alright then," he says and nods once, as if to himself. The water is lapping at his feet now and the reflected light makes his face look ghostly pale. "Come here."

Freddie wades towards him, shaking his head in warning. "Don't you dare think about saying something stupid", he mumbles.

"Oh, don't be daft." Roger's words and tone are harsh, but when Freddie embraces him, he nuzzles his face into the crook of Freddie’s neck. 

Freddie clings to Roger, trying to ward off the reality of what is about to happen just a little bit longer. Roger is going to ask him to leave. Freddie’s only just found him and he’s going to be sent away. 

But he won’t. He can’t abandon him, not again. 

The lights flicker. They are running out of time.

Roger grasps Freddie's shirt with his bound hands and holds him a short distance away, locking him in place with the intensity of his gaze. "I need you to do something." 

Freddie's stomach turns to ice. Nothing good can follow these words. “Roger, no.”

"It won't be nice, but it'll get us out. Can you do this for me?"

Freddie wants to protest again, but Roger said ‘us’. He takes a deep breath. "Tell me."

Roger lets go of his shirt and holds up his wrists. Up close, Freddie can see reddened marks on the skin where Roger must have tried to slip them off. "They're too tight for me to get out that way, but not by much. If you force my thumb out of the way..."

"Oh God." Freddie presses his eyes shut.

"...I'll be able to slip out of them."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Well, you don't want me to drown either, do you?" As if to stress the urgency of Roger's words, there is a muffled crash further down the hall and a small wave breaking against Freddie's stomach a few seconds later. 

"There's got to be another way. I'll..." His thoughts are racing frantically, "I'll..." The idea comes in a flash. "Fire axes. They're on every floor." In fact, he must have passed several of them on his way here, why hadn't he thought to bring one in the first place? God, he’s useless! "I'll get one and we'll smash the chain link."

The ship groans and Freddie can feel the floor shift under his feet. 

Roger shakes his head. "No time. Besides," He holds up his hands, stretching the two-inch chain apart as far as it would go to. "How good are you with an axe?"

Freddie fights hard to ban the horrible images from his mind. He’s never wielded an axe in his life. He'd chop off Roger’s hand as likely as sever the chain. 

"Freddie.” Roger looks drained now, exhausted. “Please. I… I can’t do this myself. I tried, but...."

Freddie looks between Roger's pleading eyes and the doorway, which is still filling up with water. "Alright. Alright." He nods. "Give me your hand."

Without hesitation, Roger places his left hand in Freddie's, holding the other one out of the way as much as possible.

"How do I..."

"Press down the base of the thumb as hard as you can with one hand, pull on the cuff with the other. I'll try to help but..."

Freddie nods jerkily. His teeth are chattering uncontrollably and his fingers feel stiff and uncooperative. He's got to do this. And he’s got to be fast. 

He pulls a sodden handkerchief from his pocket and holds it in front of Roger's mouth until Roger's takes it between his teeth. Freddie adjusts his grip and pulls Roger's hand close to his chest. Roger appears calm, but Freddie can feel the tension in his body. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but... can you try to relax?"

Roger rolls his eyes at him. “Sure, nothing easier than that.”

Seconds run by. Roger's hand is shaking in his as Freddie runs through the motions in his head. There is no way around it, and if he has to do it, he's going to be quick at least. 

"Just do it!" Roger's voice is muffled by the handkerchief. "What the hell are you wai... oh fuck, _fuck_!" Roger lets his head sink against Freddie's shoulder as he works through the pain.

"I'm sorry, darling, I'm so sorry." Freddie pushes the injured hand down into the water. At least the cold would dull the pain quickly.

Roger spits out the handkerchief. "You're a right butcher", he grunts through gritted teeth.

Freddie fishes the floating handkerchief out of the water and ties it around Roger's wrist. He tries to turn it into a bandage of sorts but Roger waves him off.

"No time", Roger says. He rolls his cramped shoulders and sets his jaw in grim determination. "Let's get out of here."

Yes. Yes, that’s what they should focus on. "Can you walk?"

"Of course I can bloody walk", Roger hisses and jumps off the desk. "Oh Christ, oh fuck, fuck!" He grimaces as he is engulfed by the freezing Atlantic ocean.

"I know." Freddie slings an arm around Roger's shoulders and together they make their way towards the door. "Good thing is, you won't even feel it after a few minutes."

* * *

The water is not just cold, but icy, searing his skin at first contact and then numbing it in a matter of seconds. 

The corridor is a torrent. There is a stairwell at the lower end, but water is pouring down the steps with brutal force.

Roger turns to Freddie. “Which way?”

Freddie is white as a sheet. "That's our way out”, he says, staring at the stairwell. 

"Well, looks like we've got to find another way." Roger turns and wades up the corridor towards the next corner. He doesn't know where he is leading them, but at least the water becomes shallower as they move on. They turn the corner into the next hallway, just as narrow, white and deserted as the last one. The lights flicker ominously.

"Do you even know where we're going?" Freddie's voice is tinged with panic.

"Up to the boat-deck and off this bloody ship", Roger replies with more confidence than he feels. With the water closing in on all sides, it feels like a trap falling shut in slow-motion. 

"But you have no idea where we are!"

"Well, we can't just stay here!" 

They round another corner. This time, the end of the corridor is blocked by a heavy double door. Roger's heart leaps as he realizes that these usually lead to a stairwell, then turns to ice when he sees the fine spray of water jetting through the gaps between the doors.

The creak of strained wood fills the air and Roger’s eyes grow wide as the first cracks appear in the panel. He digs his fingers into Freddie’s arm as he turns and pulls him along with him. "Run!"

He hears the thunder of the flood-wave as the door bursts open, sees in his mind's eye how a wall of water must be gaining on them as they race down the corridor, splashing through knee-deep water. He loses his grip on Freddie, but before he can turn back, he notices a gap to his left and instinctively swings himself inside. There are stairs under his feet and a gate ahead and if they-

"Roger!" Freddie is two steps behind him. The water is gaining on him like a freight train and he throws his hands forward in a desperate attempt to reach the handrail, but he misses by inches. 

Roger steps back and reaches out just as the wave comes crashing down on Freddie, clinging to the handrail with his right. A nauseating pain shoots through him as Freddie grabs his wrist with all his strength. But they manage to hold on and Freddie pulls himself into the stairwell.

"Sorry!" Freddie coughs as he stumbles up the steps. "I'm so..."

Roger grabs Freddie's shirt with his good hand and pulls him into a rough kiss. "Shut up", he whispers. He’s going to get Freddie out of this whatever it takes. Freddie burrows his fingers in his hair and folds himself around him. He tastes of salt and cold and Roger can feel he is shivering uncontrollably.

Once they've got their breath back, they plod up the stairs, which are rapidly filling up with water from below, until they reach the steel gate at the end. Roger pulls at it, then throws his whole weight against it, but it doesn't budge. "Fuck", he proclaims and kicks the gate in frustration.

Freddie groans and presses his hands against his temples. "Oh, I've been so stupid."

"What?"

"The keys. There were hundreds of key in the holding room. One of them must fit."

Roger looks at the corridor below them, which is now completely filled with water. He's quite a good swimmer. "If I dive..."

"No.” Freddie clings to him even more tightly than before. “Even if you made it there and back here, there's no way we'd find the right key before the stairwell has filled up." He takes a deep breath and dark brown eyes are boring into Roger's. "And if I have to die, I'd rather have you at my side."

"You will not die!" Roger resolutely begins to march back down the stairs, breathing deeply in preparation for the dive.

"Roger, no!" A hand on his shoulder holds him back.

He looks up at Freddie, sodden and shivering, his lips and eyes standing out dark in his face. "Look, I've got to try, don’t I", he asks helplessly. It's the last thing he wants to do, but he can't be standing here arguing while the seconds tick by, seconds that might save Freddie's life.

He turns back around, but the sound of shoes on linoleum stops him. Seconds later, a terrified steward in a White Star Line uniform comes into view. He starts toward them at first, but then shrinks back in horror as he becomes aware of the water welling up from below.

Freddie is back at the gate immediately, holding on the iron bars. "Wait! Unlock the door. Help us, please."

The man shakes his head in denial and begins to run up the next flight of stairs. Roger curses and punches the water that is now reaching up to his waist. The steward is almost out of view when he looks back over his shoulder and hesitates.

"Please." Freddie tries again.

Now it's the steward's turn to curse. "Fucking hell", he grumbles as he runs to the gate, clearly angry at himself.

He pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket and fumbles for the correct one. The whole ship gives another bone-shaking lurch as it sags lower and suddenly the whole scene is plunged into darkness. The steep angle makes the water level rise even faster than before. They can't have much more than a minute before they run out of air. 

"Come on, man", Roger urges the steward.

The lock is underwater now so the steward has to work by feel. At least the light comes flickering back to life. For a brief moment, Roger is reminded of John, who's probably one of those working to keep the light going. How long is he going to be able to keep it up?

The steward is muttering under his breath and working feverishly. The water is up to their chests and his movements are becoming more frantic by the second. Terrified that he’ll break the key in his panic, Roger closes his hand around the man's fingers. "Give me the key", he said. "Give me the key and go."

The steward nods and lets go of the bunch, staring at them wide-eyed. "I'm sorry", he says and then, incongruously and apologetic, "I have a child."

Roger nods. "Go." Then he turns his attention to the lock.

The key stubbornly refuses to turn. Maybe in his panic, the steward has chosen the wrong one? And even worse, the feeling is draining rapidly from Roger's fingers. He barely has any strength left in his injured left hand to hold the lock steady. Roger decides to try a different key, but he fumbles and the bunch slides through his fingers and sinks to the floor.

Roger dives after it.

He never thought he'd be in a situation where he would feel his eyeballs freeze. The water is so turbulent that he can't see a thing, and his lungs are burning by the time he’s managed to locate the key by feel alone. When he comes back up, the water has risen so high that he has to tilt his head upwards to draw breath in the narrow space below the ceiling.

“Roger!” Freddie looks terrified.

"Sorry, dropped it", Roger wheezes. He holds the keys in front of his face. Too small, too big, too narrow, too complicated... he can eliminate all but two. He coughs and splutters, blinking rapidly to get the water out of his eyes. Then the ring slips from his stiff fingers again.

Freddie catches them before they can sink down. "Stay here", he says and disappears below the water before Roger can react. There are about three inches of air left. If they don't get the door open within the next thirty seconds, they are going to drown in this shitty little staircase.

The gate rattles one last time, but doesn’t swing open. Freddie comes up next to him, hair plastered to his skull and gasping for air. All Roger can think of is to take his beautiful face in his hands and kiss him until the last pocket of air runs out. If this is his last breath, he'll make it count.

But Freddie is not looking at him, he's looking at the gate, pulling frantically at it and Roger is slow to realize that he must have opened the lock. 

"Come on!" Freddie yells, whether at him or at the gate Roger isn't sure. 

With joint effort, they wrench the gate open and half swim, half stumble up the staircase.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack**   
>  [The Titanic Band - Beautiful Blue Danube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QD8CG9lRjyM&list=PLB7BED2DB162ACD55&index=5)
> 
> Thank you, Nastally, for beta-reading (and the Russian).

The air in the deserted corridor is wonderfully warm on Roger’s skin. The ship's central heating must still be running. It doesn't do much for his waterlogged clothes, but even so, he can feel some life returning to his limbs.

And with it, a dull, throbbing pain in his maimed left hand. But there’s nothing he can do about that now.

He grits his teeth and leads them up another stairwell, Freddie keeping close behind him. They have long given up trying to find out where exactly they are. Instinctively, they just turn whichever way leads upwards and away from the rising water, hoping it won’t lead them to a dead-end.

The end of the stairwell is closed off again, but this time, it’s not by a steel gate but a wooden door blocking their way. Roger tries the handle a few times, huffing with frustration. “This ship is a bloody death trap”, he fumes.

“Here, let me…” Freddie tries to cut in, but Roger's had just about enough of this.

They’re on a sinking ship and apparently no one has bothered to make sure everyone can escape the lower decks. They could have bloody _drowned_ down there. No, they certainly _would_ have drowned if not for an unforeseen lucky run-in with the steward.

He’s been arrested, handcuffed, beaten up, his hand feels like it’s swollen to three times its normal size and the only reason he’s still alive is that the one person he wants to know safe and sound above all others has risked his life to save him.

This whole stupid ship can go rot.

He takes two steps back and barrels shoulder first into the door. _Compliments of Mr Roger Taylor._

He expects resistance, pain, something to stoke and rile up his anger even more, but the lock gives so easily that the door flies open, making him stumble into the next hallway.

“Oh for heaven's sake”, he hears Freddie mutter behind him, but Roger barely hears him. Because just like that, he’s in a different world.

A different world with brightly-lit corridors and throngs of people milling about. There are concerned faces and anxious murmuring, but no particular sense of urgency.

Roger looks around, barely able to believe his eyes. With the water only a deck or so below them, he had assumed that most people had found their way onto the decks by now. But there are whole families still down here, old people, _children_ , all moving along slowly and apparently unaware of the seriousness of the situation.

He tries hard not to think of Brian. Brian's smart. He'll have known right away something was off. He won’t allow himself to be trapped down here.

Across from Roger, a mother with a small boy next to her, clinging to the folds of her skirt, is studying a deck plan that is hung up on the wall. She looks slightly confused as she tries to work out which way to go, but there’s no sign of hurry in her.

Roger realises in horror that she likely has no idea what is happening just a couple of yards underneath her feet. And her little boy...

“You need to get out of here, quick”, he says and gestures in the direction where the ship is tilted up. “Come along with us.”

She squints suspiciously at him and Freddie, but then appears to understand and nods. She says something to her son, low and quickly, so Roger doesn’t understand, then she picks up two massive suitcases next, clearly struggling with the weight.

“No, leave them”, Roger says. “We have to move fast.”

The woman shakes her head and grips the suitcases tighter, eyeing him warily.

“Oh, bloody hell", Roger mutters. "The water is coming", he says as loudly and clearly as he can. Perhaps she doesn’t speak English all that well?

The woman shakes her head, gathering her son closer.

Roger reaches for one of the suitcases. This is insane. She won’t be allowed to take them with her anyway. They’re wasting valuable time while-

“Text with Creator's Style turned off”. The woman clings to her luggage and takes a step back, clearly upset.

“Alright.” Roger lets go, raising his hands at his sides. It’s not like he’s trying to _rob_ her, for Christ’s sake. He’ll help her carry them, even, if that’ll get her to get a move on.

As soon as he’s let go, she hurries away from him, suitcases banging heavily against her legs, her son keeping close to her, eyeing Roger with big frightened eyes.

Roger takes a step after her, but a light hand on his arm holds him back.

"Leave her”, Freddie says. “She doesn't understand."

"I can't just leave her!" Roger gestures at the stairwell they'd come from. "How long d'you reckon until the water's here? How long until the last boats are gone? She’s got to get up God knows how many flights of stairs and-"

"She's frightened and confused and she doesn’t understand what you’re saying.” Freddie looks after the figure slowly making her way up the hallway. “At least she’s headed in the right direction now.” He looks around. “I hope it’s the right direction, anyway.”

Roger tries to calm himself down, clenching his teeth. God, there are so many people down here. And they’re all headed in different directions and there’s not a crew member in sight to help them. Somehow, he’d convinced himself that they were the only ones left of the ship. The only ones he’d have to worry about.

“We should go”, Freddie says and his words are underscored by a crashing sound somewhere underneath them. Probably another door giving way, another hallway flooded. As if on cue, the lights flicker out and screams rise up around them.

Roger can feel Freddie startle as they’re suddenly plunged into darkness and instinctively, Roger reaches for his hand with his own good one. He brushes his fingers over Freddie’s knuckles, holding on tightly. He knows that if the lights don’t go on again, their task of finding a way out will be infinitely more difficult.

But despite the terror and the confusion, he savours this moment. Just Freddie’s hand in his. As it should be.

That’s what’s important. That’s what he should focus on.

The lights come flickering back to life and it’s with reluctance that Roger lets go. "Right", he says. "Let's get out of here."

They join the flow of people who instinctively follow the upward tilt of the ship. The strategy seems to work, as they soon find an entrance to one of the main staircases leading up, but at the foot of it the crowd thickens and there is angry shouting ahead.

"Bloody hell", Roger grumbles when he sees what's going on. "No, no, no, not _again_."

There is another locked gate. But this time, the problem isn’t a lack of crew members to open them. In fact, there are three people in White-Star-Line uniforms, but all they seem to be doing is _guard_ the door. Unbelievable.

The people at the front are pleading with them to let them through, and after some discussion it seems to be working. But the gates are only opened a few feet, barely allowing a couple of women and children to squeeze through in single file.

Screams, first angry, then panicked fill the air as more and more people realise the door won’t be thrown open and start to push forward. A few men manage to slip through the crack, but then the crewmen wrest the gate shut again.

"Son of a..." Roger starts forward. He doesn't know what to do, but he’s managed to get two doors open already, so he must be doing something right.

A little further down the corridor a couple of men start yanking a wooden bench from its moorings to use as a battering ram. That certainly looks like a bright idea. Roger stops to join in their efforts, but then Freddie, who’s following right behind him, yells "We have got a key!”

Roger turns. He's completely forgotten about the keys. "You're a sodding genius", he says and has to fight the urge to kiss him.

"I'm not going to make the same mistake twice", Freddie says and holds the keys up high in the air. "Get me to the gate."

The jangle of metal keys clanging against each other rings out, making the crowds’ heads turn. "Let us through”, Roger calls out. “Let us to the door, we’ve got a key!"

The stairwell is too packed to clear a path for them, but when news of what’s happening filters through, they crowd together just enough to let them squeeze past.

When they're almost at the gate, Roger sees a familiar sharp profile. "Brian!"

What the fuck is he still doing here, he should be up on deck!

Brian turns from where he's been arguing with the crewmen just in time to be engulfed in Roger’s hug. "Roger! Oh, thank God! And Freddie. I had no idea..."

“Where’s John”, Roger asks, fingers digging into Brian’s back. “And Sven and Digs and the others, do you know?”

Brian shakes his head. “I haven’t seen any of them, and John and I split up just after…” He trails off, pushing Roger back a little and takes in their waterlogged and blue-lipped appearance. "By George, what happened to you?"

"Same thing that'll happen to all of us if we don't get out of here quickly", Roger says. "This thing is going down fast."

Brian nods grimly, as if that’s what he’d been expecting all along. Then his eyes wander to the makeshift bandage around Roger’s hand. "What about your hand?"

"Long story, Bri. Later."

Freddie holds up the keys. "I really hope one of those fits."

“Where on earth did you…” Then Brian remembers the motto of the hour and cuts himself off with a shake of his head. He turns back to the stewards manning the gate. “Open the gate”, he says. “Or we’ll do it ourselves.”

But the crewmen are determined not to let them get to the lock. "It is a strict order that passengers stay below deck for the time being so as not to overcrowd the boat deck and create a panic", one of them explains frantically. He looks like he is still in his teens. “It’s for your own safety.”

Brian glares at him. "Step back", he says.

The man shakes his head and grips the lock tightly with both hands, his colleagues hovering right behind him.

Roger automatically adjusts his stance and draws back his shoulder. He might not be a good boxer, but he can pack a punch if he has to.

But before the unfortunate crewman can make the acquaintance of his fist, a heavy hand lands on Roger's shoulder. "'scuse me, gents."

Bill the coal trimmer has somehow found his way to the front. He leans close to the steward and says in a surprisingly gentle voice. "If you don't let go right now I'm gonna break your fucking fingers one by one."

The crewman stares at him for a whole second, then he wrenches his hands away and takes a hasty step back.

Bill holds out a hand towards the gate and turns to Freddie, who’s still holding the keys. With just a hint of a smirk on his face, he invites him to step forward. “Your lordship.”

Freddie goes to work immediately, trying one key after the other. He is at the fourth when the lock clicks.

Roger looks up at the crewmen who are standing frozen a few feet from the gate they are supposed to guard. "If I were you, I'd run. Now."

Brian gives them two seconds. Then he throws open the gate.

* * *

The scene on deck is completely transformed from when Freddie has last seen it.

There are throngs of people filling the promenade and boat deck now. The bow is entirely submerged and he can’t see any lifeboats, except for one half-flooded collapsible boat at the very front that is still moored to the ship. A handful of seamen are trying desperately to get it upright and floating.

Every two minutes the crack of a distress rocket whips through the air, before it explodes and a white starburst fills the sky, distracting even the most desperate for a few seconds.

Roger and Brian try to take it all in, breathless and wide-eyed, completely taken aback by the scene. Whatever they expected, it’s not that.

“Is that a band playing _Beautiful Blue Danube_ ”, Brian asks with a stunned expression.

"More importantly”, Roger adds before Freddie can answer, “where are all the boats?"

“Perhaps there are more further back”, Freddie says without much conviction and waves a hand towards the stern. “Or on the other side.”

“What about that one over there?” Roger points at the collapsible. “Perhaps we can help to get it afloat.”

It doesn’t seem like a great option, because there is already a crowd of people around it. But it’s also the _only_ concrete option they have apart from aimlessly wandering around, so Freddie nods and starts following Roger in that direction. After two steps, they notice that Brian hasn’t followed them.

“What”, Roger asks.

"I think I…” Brian bites his lip and thinks for a second, then nods to himself. “I think I’ll check starboard", he says finally.

“Starboard”, Roger repeats and looks over the deck. “Why, do you think we’ve got better chances there?”

Brian looks pale and grim. “No. But _I_ might.”

“What? Why you?”

"The chances of all three of us getting into one boat are slim. You try here, I try my luck over there.”

“You mean splitting up?” Roger’s face darkens. “Like hell we will! We only just found you!”

“Statistically speaking, it’s much more likely that…”

Roger puts his hands on his hips. “No, come on, don’t give me that horseshit.”

“...more likely to find a seat on our own than as a group.”

Roger looks at Freddie, as if asking to help him out. But Brian is probably right. And also…

Freddie considers the off chance that they find a boat with two seats left. Would he really want to make Roger choose between him and Brian? The mere thought has his breath speed up with panic. Could he bear being left behind? Could he bear being the reason Roger’s had to say goodbye to his best friend?

Another distress rocket explodes and the crack pulls him back into the present. “Whatever we do, we shouldn’t be lingering much longer”, he says.

Brian nods vigorously. “We try on our own. If we don't find a boat, let’s meet over there”, he points at a small space next to the first funnel, “and… er, regroup.”

“Regroup”, Roger repeats. “How do you mean ‘regroup’, how about we just not ‘degroup’ in the first place?”

“Roger…” Brian’s expression is strained now. His eyes flicker to Freddie.

“Oh no, don’t go all stubborn on me, Brian, not now. This really isn’t the time to- What?” Roger whirls around when Freddie puts a hand on his arm.

“You’re right”, Freddie says. Roger’s expression turns triumphant, but before he can turn back to Brian, Freddie goes on. “This isn’t the time to argue.” He locks eyes with Roger, willing him to understand. “We haven’t got the time.”

“Not you, too”, Roger groans.

Brian takes the opportunity while Roger is distracted and takes a step away from him. “See you in New York”, he says. Then his eyes flicker to the place he’s indicated earlier. “Or back there.”

Freddie can hardly bear to look at Roger’s face when he understands that Brian means it. And he knows exactly how that feels, because he’s done the same thing barely an hour ago: Saying goodbye without knowing whether it’ll be forever.

“Yes”, Roger says in a toneless voice. “See you. I...” But he can’t seem to find the words.

They share a long look, and then Brian resolutely turns on his heel and marches down to the starboard side.

When Freddie puts a hand on Roger’s back, he can feel him fighting for his composure. But after a few shaky breaths, he squares his shoulders. “Alright”, he says. "Let’s try the collapsible."

The order of women and children only has broken down completely. The boat, which is now facing the correct side up at least, is filled with a mixture of crewmen and passengers of all ages and sexes. It's barely half-filled, but the officer in charge is not allowing more people on board in fear it might not stay afloat with the added weight.

The seamen have given up trying to hoist the ship onto the davits and simply started cutting the lines before the boat can be dragged completely underwater.

A ring of people have formed around the boat, kept in check by a guard of grim-looking seamen. Some of them arguing to be let on, but the officer warns the crowd to stay back. "We cannot take on any more!"

“This is ridiculous”, Roger whispers at Freddie after they watched helplessly for a couple of minutes from the edge of the crowd. “All these people.”

Freddie thinks back to all the boats that left barely half-full. “I… I think they’ll pick up more people from the water.” He nervously fiddles with the cuff of his jacket. The night chill is creeping into his wet clothes.

"Let's try somewhere else”, Roger says. He takes Freddie's sleeve and tugs. “This is useless.”

Freddie is about to snap that there isn’t anywhere else to try, that the boats are all gone, that’s it’s going to be the same situation everywhere, when a familiar voice cuts through the noise. "Bulsara!"

Colonel Gracie, cutting an imposing figure in his best evening dress, weaves through the crowd. "What are you still doing here", he asks in a surprised and almost jolly tone, as if he is merely inquiring why Freddie hasn’t joined the others in the smoking room yet. He doesn't wait for an answer but motions for Freddie to follow him to the boat. The crewman keeping an eye on the crowd let them through without so much as a questioning word. Gracie puts an arm on Freddie’s shoulder and gestures imperiously at the officer. "Let this man on", he says.

Freddie cannot believe what he’s hearing. "Colonel Gracie, I don’t… Hey!"

Roger's foot has come down hard on Freddie's. He’s right behind him, shielding him from the throng of people closing in on them.

"Colonel, the boat is unstable as it is", the officer replies. "We can't..."

"Ah, the boy doesn’t weigh more than a couple of pounds soaking wet", the Colonel explains. Then he turns to Freddie and, as if the opinion of the officer is completely immaterial, adds: "Give my regards to Mrs Bulsara."

Freddie nods, completely perplexed. “Yes, Colonel, of course, I... But-”

“No time to waste then”, Gracie says. “Hop on!”

The officer's glance wanders between the Colonel, Freddie and the half-empty boat. "One more", he says after long seconds. "Only one."

"Splendid!" Gracie puts one hand on Freddie's back. Instinctively, Freddie takes a step back, away from the boat and directly into Roger.

"Freddie." Roger murmurs directly into his ear. "Don’t be stupid."

“You don’t honestly expect me to leave you here,” Freddie hisses back, turning towards him. They’re drawing curious glances, but right now Freddie couldn’t care less.

“Freddie, please. Just go. This is the chance we’ve been looking for.”

"Have you already forgotten every single word I said tonight?" All of a sudden and for the first time since they've known each other, Freddie is genuinely, blood-boilingly angry at Roger. “I won’t leave without you.”

"I'll find something else", Roger's eyes are pleading with him now. "You heard what Brian said. It’s easier for one alone. Please!"

Gracie looks between them with a look of complete puzzlement on his face. "Gentlemen, time _is_ rather pressing, I’m afraid."

In the flare of a distress signal, Freddie spots a pale face in the crowd. It's not immediately familiar, but after a few seconds, he can place it.

Thank heavens. That is going to make it so much easier.

"Hey, you!" He waves at the man until he's got his attention, then beckons him to come closer.

Roger grabs his arm and tries to stop him. "Freddie, what are you doing?"

"This man”, Freddie points him out to the officer and the Colonel, “has been waiting out here for hours. He's got two small children waiting for him in another boat."

“Oh, bloody hell.” Roger huffs out a breath. Freddie doesn’t look at him.

Gracie looks at the man, who has come to stand next to Freddie. "Is that true?”

The man nods. “Constance and Barbara”, he says quietly.

Freddie raises his eyes at the officer. "One more, you said?"

The officer nods weakly, clearly just wanting this to be over with. “Come on, then.”

“Excellent”, Colonel Gracie says, although without much enthusiasm. Clearly that’s not how he imagined his intervention to go. But he nods at Freddie with a sort of surprised respect. “Yes, very good.”

They don’t watch as the boat slips into the water.

Roger takes Freddie's wrist with his good hand as they march off. "You are the most stubborn, stupid man I've ever met in my life," he hisses, his grip like a vise. "What on earth were you think-"

He's cut off when he runs directly into a tall, dark-haired man in a tailcoat.

"What a heartbreaking display", a snide voice says.

_Cy._

Roger rights himself, struggling to get his feet under him on the sloping deck and his expression quickly changes from shock to anger. "You", he starts and pushes Cy back.

** _Who broke into his suite and touched his things_ **

Cy steps around Roger, his focus entirely on Freddie. "So you'd rather drown than marry my sister? Don’t think we’re good enough for you?"

** _Who tried to make him believe the best man he's ever known is nothing but a common thief_ **

“Oi, don’t you dare talk to him like that”, Roger fumes, trying to stop him with an arm on his shoulder. But Cy shrugs him off and stalks towards Freddie.

** _Who ordered his lackey to let Roger drown_ **

"All for this?" Cy gestures at Roger, a look of disbelieving revulsion on his face. "This… this _Text with Creator's Style turned off_ from God knows where, who doesn't even-"

The roar of red-hot thunder exploding inside Freddie drowns out everything else. The commands of the crew. The snippets of music drifting over the deck.

The crunch of a nose splintering under the impact of his fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited! There is now a fantastically researched companion fic to this, showing more of the Brian, John and below-deck side of things: [Hearts Go On](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764233?view_full_work=true) by [1f_this_be_madness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack:**   
>  [James Horner - A Building Panic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3amD3gDQKWc)
> 
> So many people to thank this time: @nastally, the best beta anyone could wish for, and also @emma_and_orlando, @toinette92 and @plainxte for their input and patiently answering my questions <3

There are a number of things Roger never thought would happen to him in his lifetime. Dining on caviar in the same room as John Jacob Astor and Benjamin Guggenheim. Defiling a luxurious Turkish bath in the most enjoyable manner. Almost drowning on an unsinkable ship. And all that within a couple of days.

But having his honour defended by his dainty, posh paramour really takes the cake. Roger has to admit that despite the circumstances, seeing that son-of-a-bitch's face get bashed in had been brilliant. 

It had also been incredibly reckless, especially since that loathsome valet must still be around somewhere. Luckily, everyone around them had been too focused on themselves and the sinking ship to apprehend Freddie, and the dense crowd and general panic made it easy to disappear. 

They make their way to the other side of the deck more or less by accident, Roger dragging a still fuming Freddie behind him. The scene at the starboard side looks even more chaotic than what they’ve left behind. Roger can only make out one boat on the davits and the nerves of crew and passengers are frayed. There are men shouting at officers, women crying out for help, people stumbling and falling in the dense crowd of people. The first-class band incongruously is still playing lively music. A priest is gathering his flock around him. Ominous clangs and thuds are thundering through the ship’s submerged belly. 

Even the staunchest optimist must have realised by now that the ship is going to go down. The scramble for the last seats has begun. 

A shudder runs through the ship and with a sickening lurch, the angle of the deck tilts even more steeply. Freddie stumbles against Roger, who automatically holds on to his waist to prop him up. His jacket is stiff and icy under his fingers. 

"Freddie", Roger whispers. "Freddie, we’ve got to-”

A seaman runs into him, knocking him off balance. Without sparing a look, he hurries on towards the boat. As he tries to stay on his feet, he almost steps on a terrier who’s running along the deck. 

They need somewhere quieter, somewhere where they can pause and _think_ just for a minute. 

Roger steps aside, into the lee of a bollard, and tugs Freddie with him. “Listen, we have to decide what we're going to do.”

“I know.” Freddie swallows hard. His eyes are huge on his pale face, his hair dried in clumps on his head. There’s a smear of blood on his hand - Cy’s blood, Roger notes with satisfaction - but now that his rage has worn off he looks rattled and shaken. Small, somehow. 

“We have to decide together”, Roger goes on. “And we have to do it now." There must be a way to get Freddie out of this. There _must_ be and by God, he’s going to find it. 

Freddie looks towards the bridge. "If the wireless operators are worth their salt, they'll have already contacted nearby ships", he says. "We could try to hold out for them. Hope she stays afloat long enough."

Roger nods, although he can feel the steep angle inclining more and more with every passing second. "There are still boats left though." The words have barely left his mouth when two shots ring out on the starboard side and a shockwave goes through the crowd as it rears back.

 _"I try my luck over there"_ , Brian had said. He’s must be in there somewhere. Oh Lord, please don’t let him be in there. 

Roger automatically starts towards the commotion, but Freddie holds him back, shaking his head, silently imploring him to stay put. Roger takes a couple of deep breaths. “Right”, he says with more confidence than he feels. “We stay on", he says. "As long as possible."

Freddie nods, but looks worried. "What if she pulls us down?"

“I don’t know. We’ll… we’ll worry about that then, alright?” He takes Freddie’s hand in both of his own.

Freddie squeezes back lightly, mindful of his injury. “I really don’t want to fight anyone for a seat on a boat. So many people…”

“I know.” The enormity of what is happening around them presses in on the edge of his consciousness. How many have already died, trapped behind a locked gate? How many would follow before the night is over?

“Roger, I…” Freddie’s eyes grow wide as he is distracted by something behind Roger. “Roger, look.”

He looks over his shoulder. There's Brian lanky form, unharmed it looks like. He’s alive. He’s alive and he’s still on that bloody ship, dammit. There’s a uniformed crew member next to him, face covered completely in soot. He’s carrying a bundle in his arms. 

“Brian!” Roger waves animatedly to draw his attention over the din of the crowd and the dying ship. 

The look on Brian’s face when he notices them… it’s the same mix of emotions Roger feels. Relief at seeing his friend again. Despair that he hasn’t made it into a boat either. 

As they come closer, Roger takes in the figure by his side and his heart leaps. It’s John. But Roger can’t focus on him, because now he can also see what he’s carrying. A familiar head of dark curls, but this time Cora isn’t smiling up at him in her charming way, inviting him to dance with her, but crying hysterically, both trying to cling to John and get away from him at the same time.

“Cora”, Roger stutters and tries to get her attention, but she doesn’t even appear to see him. Her sobs are heart-breaking and Roger’s chest tightens. Dammit, there are still children on this ship. They’re dooming men to their fate and yet they haven’t even managed to get all the children to safety. The thought is overwhelming in its horror, so he pushes it aside and forces himself to look back at John. "The hell did you even come from", Roger asks, as he takes in his singed hair and grimy face.

John just points down. His face is ashen under the dirt. “I was trying to find Chief Sloan, but then there was this girl all alone and… I couldn’t just leave her, could I?” 

He looks from Roger to Freddie and Brian with such panic and desperation in his eyes, as if he expects them to reprimand him for leaving his post. 

“No”, Brian says in his quiet, determined way. “No, you couldn’t.” 

Freddie has stepped closer to John, laying his hand softly on Cora’s back and murmuring to her in a low voice. It doesn’t have any effect on her crying, but at least she’s stopped flailing. 

"The boilers are getting flooded”, John says in a clipped, flat tone like he’s making a report. “There’s perhaps ten or fifteen minutes of power left, if we’re lucky."

“So we won’t have any lights to see by after that”, Roger says. That’s not good. It’s going to make everything so much more chaotic. 

John shakes his head. “Worse. The bilge pumps will stop working, which means that the water will rise that much faster.” 

"Fuck." Roger hadn’t even thought of that. 

Brian scowls at Roger and nods at the girl who is still screaming her head off. “Language.”

Roger doesn’t point out that a rude word is really not her biggest problem right now. “Alright”, he says and tries to get a grip on the situation. 

They’re on a sinking ship with no chance to get on a lifeboat. The water is freezing and there’s no rescue ship in sight. But somehow, they have all ended up right here, together, and that has got to count for something, doesn’t it? “So what are we going to do now.” Automatically, he directs his question at Brian.

Brian nods as if he’d just been waiting for this. “We’re going to build a raft.”

“A raft”, Roger asks, even as his mind starts whirring. 

"Yes."

"That's..." Fantastical, unrealistic, hardly going to work? “Brilliant, let’s go."

“Alright.” Brian looks around, pointing out objects. “We’ll need deck chairs, doors, oars - anything made of wood, anything that floats. Also rope, or belts, braces, what have you, to tie everything together. John, you can…”

But John is shaking his head. “No. No, I have to get back.”

Brian looks aghast. “Back where?” 

“To my post”, he says and hands Cora to a surprised Freddie. “I can’t leave the others, I have to…”

“John, your post has been _flooded_!”

“The main control room is aft. It’ll still be above the waterline.” 

John takes a step away from them, but Brian takes him by the arms, holding him back. “For the love of God, man. How much of a difference is it going to make?”

“I’ll have to try at last, don’t I?” With his wide eyes and shaking voice, he looks just as young as he actually is. Just a boy, thrown into an impossible position. 

Brian’s eyes are locked with John’s. “Don’t throw your life away for nothing”, he says, a desperate, pleading tone in his voice now. “Help us. You can make a difference here.” He looks at the little girl sobbing in Freddie’s arms. “You can make a difference for her.”

Roger can see that John is wavering. “We don’t have much time left”, he says, pressing the advantage. “We need every pair of hands. And you know the ship better than any of us.”

“Please, John”, Freddie says quietly, rocking Cora in his arms. There’s so much in those two words. Please don’t make a useless sacrifice. Please stay with us. Please don’t make us say goodbye. 

John squeezes his eyes shut. Then he nods. “Alright”, he says quietly. 

Brian’s shoulders slump with relief, but he’s not given much time to enjoy his victory as John claps him hard on the back. “Come on, no time for idleness.”

After that, it’s a blur of action. They scramble together every piece of the ship that might float. Deck chairs, wooden hatches, oars that haven't made it into the boats, chests, benches, doors... As soon as it becomes obvious what they are doing, other passengers join in. An elderly man in evening wear. A young couple in nightgowns and bathrobes. A black fellow who speaks French with a soft accent Roger can't quite place. One of the ship’s stewardesses, who has a knack for calming Cora down by singing and clapping out rhymes with her. 

They run out of building material at one point, so Roger heads into the first-class entrance with a vague idea to find a fire axe and chop wood panelling from the walls. He does find an axe, but realises belatedly he can’t really do anything with only one good hand. Freddie takes over, but he’s almost worse with his two hands than Roger is with one. After narrowly missing his own foot, they are rescued by a diminutive middle-aged woman who speaks a language Roger has never heard on all his travels. 

"Text with Creator's Style turned off", she snarls and plucks the axe from Freddie's unresisting hands. 

She proceeds to make short work of a mahogany sideboard while Roger and Freddie ward off an enraged steward accusing them of damaging White Star Line-property. Carrying the pieces back down a precariously slanting deck crammed with people fleeing the incoming water is a challenge, but eventually they make it back to John and Brian, who tie everything together with bits of rope from the empty davits (and, apparently, long strips of a lady’s nightgown). 

Sweat is pouring down John’s face as he hammers a piece of carved wood into place with his fist. "If we make it out of here”, he grunts, “we'll play that damned concert." 

Roger pauses from where he’s trying to tie a knot with his teeth and his one functioning hand. He looks at John, who hasn’t stopped working even for a second, then at Freddie and Brian. 

Right, the concert. It can’t have been more than a couple of hours ago when they were thinking up ridiculous names for their little band. Hell, they'd come up with the idea only this afternoon. It feels like a lifetime ago. 

"We will", Brian says. 

Freddie nods silently, but with the same glint of determination in his eyes. 

They all share that moment, that promise, for the length of a heart-beat. Then there’s a metallic creak and something like an explosion and a wave washes over the deck a bit further down, washing the people there into the sea.

That quickly brings them back into the present. Brian gives the wooden construction an experimental tug. “Feels solid”, he says and John nods in agreement 

“Solide, oui, mais je ne suis pas sûr que ça flotte”, the Frenchman says.

John looks at him with raised eyebrows. 

“He’s worried about how well it’ll float”, Roger translates. 

John nods and shares a worried look with Brian. 

The man snaps his fingers, like he’s just had an idea. “Gilets de sauvetage”, he says and points at the life vest he’s wearing.

“Of course”, Brian exclaims. “If we attach life vests to the bottom, that will give it lift. Right?” He looks at John and the Frenchman, who both nod frantically. 

Life vests, Roger thinks. It’s so obvious. Why hadn’t they thought of it before? They're in all the cabins, if only they’d remembered to take some with them… but it’s too late now, Roger thinks desperately. The angle of the deck is increasing fast, the water swallowing up the ship foot by foot. 

He makes the mistake of looking down in the water which is already filled with people swimming for their lives - and people who don't have any life left in them. 

"Roger?"

Freddie's dark eyes peer up at him. He's holding on to a strut with one hand as the deck is now almost too steep to stand on now. 

Freddie. 

Freddie who can’t swim. 

Freddie who hadn’t let go of him for a second even when he’d been in nothing more threatening than a small swimming pool. 

And Roger completely, utterly bollocksed it up. He should have got him a life vest at the first opportunity, but somehow he just hadn’t thought of it. How could he have forgot?

Then another memory flickers through his mind, an older one. A sunny day, an ice-warning, the starched collar of the stewards uniform rubbing against his neck… He’s seen life-vests that day, a whole cache of them as he went exploring. He squeezes his eyes shut trying to place it, trying to remember _where_. 

Somewhere further aft, beyond the gymnasium. He’d been wandering around the officer’s mess that day, he remembers that, and had a look at the electric cranes behind that. There, somewhere. 

“I’ll go find us some”, he says. He’ll know where to look once he’s there. 

It’s only when he’s taken a few steps that he realises Freddie’s right behind him. 

He rolls his eyes as Roger opens his mouth and propels him forward with a hand on his back. “Don’t be daft, dear, we don’t have time for arguments.”

And that’s that. Together they make their way back up the sloping deck. Roger is glad that he doesn’t have to let Freddie out of his sight, but on the other hand, they have no idea what’s going to happen and it’s probably safer to stay near the raft, _flottable_ or no. It’s agonisingly slow progress with the steep angle, the mass of people, the debris cluttering their way. 

There's a whirring in the air, like metallic whips being unleashed, and something rips violently into the floor a few feet away from Freddie. Splinters of wood fly everywhere. 

"What the..."

Metal groans. 

As Roger looks up, fifty feet of solid-steel funnel start to tilt ever so slowly. 

"Run. _Run!_ ”

Roger grabs Freddie and sprints up the deck out of the line of impact. Screams rise up behind them and then the crash as the funnel crashes into the ship, into the sea. 

Into people.

Roger slows down, panting, and turns around. 

Where the funnel used to be, there’s now a giant hole sucking in Atlantic water with enough force to rip an anchor from its mooring. Somehow, within the last minute, the whole lower deck has become flooded and all Roger can do is pray that the raft is doing its job, and that his friends have made it onto it.

Whatever they do now, they're going to end up in the water. If they want to make it to the lifeboats or to the raft, they'll have to swim, and they'll have to swim fast before they bloody well freeze to death, and without even a life vest that is going to be…

He turns to Freddie, whose eyes are glued to the carnage below them. "We need to get you a vest. Come on."

Making their way aft is like climbing a mountain slope, if mountains were made of slippery wet planks and crowded with throngs of terrified people in night-gowns.

The angle is getting so steep they have to use handrails and flagpoles to keep moving. Around them, the first people start to stumble and slip.

Roger tries to focus his thoughts on the task. Keep going. Make sure Freddie doesn’t fall. Find a life vest. 

They creep up steadily alongside the last deckhouse before the long open space of the poopdeck rises up before them. Roger rips open the doors leading inside as he passes them: stairwells leading down, some machinery. Nothing more buoyant than some iron piping.

Then, just at the outer edge of the deckhouse, there is another door, barely bigger than a maintenance hatch. A life-saver is painted on it. 

Finally. 

Lights flicker on the dying ship. 

Roger climbs until he can lean against the aft-facing side of the building and reaches for the lid.

Locked.

He pulls at it, as hard as he can, but it doesn’t budge. Freddie crouches down beside him and wordlessly tries to help.

It stays stuck.

"Roger." Freddie’s hand on his back.

Roger looks around frantically for something he can use as a lever. A deck chair crashes into the wall next to him.

"Roger!" Freddie tugs at his shirt. "We can’t stay here!"

He wraps the chain of his handcuffs around the latch, holding on tightly with the same hand, puts his feet against the wall of the deckhouse and pulls until his wrist bleeds from the cuff biting into it.

"Roger, for heaven's sake, please-"

A sound like giants ripping steel sheets apart tears through the air. Roger falls backwards onto the ground as the ship plummets back to almost horizontal. 

Something fast and violent smashes into the lid just inches from Roger's hands like a cast-iron whip.

The door springs open and a whole stack of life vests tumbles out. 

Roger puts one over Freddie's head and pushes two or three more into his arms, then grabs whatever he can carry himself and flings the rest onto the deck. Perhaps someone will find a use for them. 

Slowly, the deck starts tilting again. 

While Roger is still trying to understand what is happening, Freddie grabs him around his waist and tugs him towards the stern of the ship. "Come on. Come _on_ "

They run. Fast at first, but the stern is rising again, faster this time, making every step harder than the last.

But they make it, they _almost_ make it, the aft railing looming closer and closer until Roger can almost touch it.

It’s no more than three yards away when Roger slips. 

He falls down hard, slides down the deck, flailing for a hold with his left hand, still clinging to the life vests with his right.

Something in his wrist gives as his fall is stopped abruptly. Freddie's face is an ashen mask above him. His mouth is moving but Roger can’t hear what he’s saying through the veil of pain.

Freddie is somehow hanging to the aft railing, clinging to it with one hand and his feet hooked over it, and holding onto Roger God knows how.

He can't let go of the life vests, Roger thinks, clinging to them with panicked desperation. He needs them for… for floating that has been the whole point, hasn’t it? Once they make it to the raft, they’ll need them. He can’t let go of them.

"Take my hand.” Freddie’s words filter through to him. “Come on, I don’t know how much longer I can... please take my hand."

"I can't... I've got to..." Roger gestures vaguely with the life jackets. He can't just let them go.

"We'll find another for you, I promise. I promise. Take my hand. Please." Freddie’s voice breaks on the last word and Roger can't help but obey. The live vests tumble down the almost vertical deck. He reaches up and Freddie takes his hand.

There are some moorings he can just about reach with his foot and with Freddie's help he makes it to the railing. He doesn’t know how he manages to climb over it when one hand feels like it’s been put into a meat grinder, but finally, he's on the other side of it, staring down the length of the vertical ship.

His things are down there, he thinks oddly detached. His glasses, his good suit, his meagre savings. Freddie’s drawing. All headed for the bottom of the Atlantic ocean. 

Freddie takes his injured hand into his own and cradles it against his chest. "If I ever get my hands on the bastard who put these cuffs on you..."

Roger shakes him off and reaches for the ties at the side of his life jacket, fingers stiff and trembling. "Gotta tie those up. Come on. Not much time."

Freddie’s eyes flicker down, seemingly taking in where they are for the first time. “Gracious”, he whispers, fingers clenching around the rungs of the railing.

The ship moves. All attention snaps to the freezing dark ocean waiting for them four hundred feet below.

It feels like an elevator, a smooth posh one, going down.

Roger's breathing picks up. This is it. "Take a deep breath and hold it right before we go into the water. The ship will suck us down. Aim for the surface and keep kicking. Take my hand. Don't let go of me."

"I won't let go." Freddie places his hand in Roger’s right.

The deck is fast disappearing. People vanish in the boiling white water where ship meets ocean. 100 feet. 50.

"Don't let go," Roger repeats like a prayer.

30 feet.

"Don't you dare let go." 

10 feet.

Now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'Frenchman' who helps them build the raft is Haitian engineer [Joseph Philippe Lemercier Laroche](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Philippe_Lemercier_Laroche). He'd studied and lived in Paris for 10 years, but wanted to get back to Haiti with his French wife and two kids (he had trouble finding work due to racial discrimination). When the ship sank, he made sure his family was safe, but didn't survive himself.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack**   
>  [James Horner - A Promise Kept](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x9XXHnnxbG0)
> 
> As always, thanks to my wonderful beta nastally <3
> 
> Warning: Brief suicidal ideation ahead.

His lungs are on fire even while his body is engulfed by a cold so intense it’s like razor blades cutting into his skin. He cannot breathe. Cannot, _must not_ open his mouth. Can’t see a thing in the black vortex sucking him down.

Freddie desperately reaches out with his hands but Roger is gone.

He let go.

The sea is frothing with pockets of air rising from the sinking ship's carcass underneath them and throngs of people frantically swimming for their lives. Freddie is thrown this way and that by the currents, his own feeble attempts at swimming towards the surface completely futile. Then there is a torrent of water boiling with bubbles all around him, pulling him along like a ragdoll.

Just when he thinks he can’t hold on any longer, his head breaks through the water. He gulps down lungfuls of air, coughing, sputtering.

"Roger!" His voice is swallowed by the screams around him. He turns, blinks stinging saltwater out of his eyes. "Roger!"

Hands in his hair, on his shoulder, pressing his head down into the freezing water. He tries to fight the man off, but his body feels weak, heavy. That hateful feeling of being trapped, swallowed up engulfs him again. Hands grab him by the armpits and he twists helplessly to get away. But they don’t let up.

He needs to scream with helpless rage, but he knows that if he opens his mouth, he will swallow the sea and not come up again.

“Freddie!" Someone is speaking right into his ear from behind. It’s only then that Freddie realises there’s air on his face and that he is gulping down fast, ragged breaths. He’s not being pushed down, but held up.

The hands let go of him, and although he was fighting them not a minute ago, now all Freddie wants is to have them back.

They are back, on his waist this time, their grip softened by the life jacket. Roger’s face comes into view. His face is waxy, his lips dark against his pale complexion, eyelashes clumped together. Blood is running down the side of his face and there’s a slightly dazed look in his eyes. Still beautiful like a spring morning.

Freddie’s brought back fully to his senses when something kicks against his thigh – they're surrounded by struggling people, many without life vests, trying to grab a hold of anything that floats.

"We've got to get out of here”, Roger says, his speech slurred by numb lips.

“The raft?” But as Freddie looks around, he knows it’s impossible to find their friends in the chaos.

They turn in a direction they hope leads them out of the mass of people. It's slow going, both because the water is filled with debris and passengers, and because the cold saps the energy from their muscles with every passing second. Freddie is barely able to think. All he can do is take things in.

A crewman furiously blowing his whistle.

Sodden clothing oozing out of a half-open suitcase.

A young man crying for his mother.

A stuffed bear held by a small, ghostly pale hand.

It gets quieter the longer they swim, less crowded. Or rather, Roger swims, while Freddie is being held up by the life vest and tugged along by Roger.

Far ahead in the darkness, single points of light are flickering. It must be the life-boats, hovering out of reach. It's impossible to guess how far they're away, but Freddie knows in his heart that they’ll never get to them.

Roger might make it on his own. Freddie should tell him, but he can’t bring himself to give up the arm slung around his shoulders, the only thing that’s warm and alive in this frozen pit of blackness. Even his strong swimming strokes are becoming short and choppy as the icy water saps all life from their limbs. But he never stops driving them forward.

A single size 5 evening dress shoe.

An old woman with a gaping wound where the right side of her face used to be.

A half-submerged mahogany chair.

An exquisitely decorated door.

Roger stops swimming and reaches for it. "This..." He coughs. "This'll get us out of the water." His speech is fuzzy, slurred. He shakes his head as if to ward off a dizzy spell.

“Roger…” Freddie reaches out to wipe his hair out of his eyes. The blood has been almost completely washed away, but now he can see the laceration at his temple.

“Must get out…” Roger squeezes his eyes together for a second. “...out of the water.” He sounds like every word is costing him infinite energy.

“Yes”, Freddie agrees. “Come on, you go first.” He reaches for the door to steady it.

“But…”

“You can help me onto it.” Freddie starts pulling at Roger’s jacket, a feeble attempt to help him climb.

Roger holds his left hand protectively against his chest as he starts to crawl on top. Freddie does what he can to keep the door steady, to help him with a shove against his bum, but it’s agonisingly slow going. There’s none of his usual quickness left in Roger.

He could have reached the boats by now, Freddie can’t help thinking. If he hadn’t been carrying you, he might be safe and dry now.

Finally, Roger lies panting on the side of the door. He reaches out his good hand. “Now you”, he whispers.

Freddie takes the hand and tries to pull himself on top, but his added weight almost capsizes the door, threatening to have Roger slide back into the water.

"Right”, Freddie mutters, pushing at Roger to help him stay on top. “Right."

"Freddie?" Roger blinks his eyes open, but he can barely focus them on Freddie.

Freddie manoeuvres himself to the front of the door, so he can be closer to Roger. "It's alright”, he says, doing his best to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Gotta come up”, Roger mumbles.

“I've got a vest. The boats..." He forces himself to feel the conviction just so he can let it fill his voice. "The boats will come back for us soon."

He puts his folded arms onto the door so he can lay down his heavy head on them. His forehead just about touches Roger’s.

He can rest like that, just for a bit.

Just until the boats come back.

Bit by bit, the voices in the air die down.

* * *

Out here the water is so calm that Roger can see the stars reflected in it. No breeze is stirring the frosty air. It's not the kind of night that should sink a ship.

Belatedly, Roger realises he’s opened his eyes. Had he ever even closed them?

He turns his head to find Freddie right in front of him, his chin resting on his folded arms. He is so close that Roger can see the tiny ice crystals that have formed in his lashes. Freddie has got such fine, long lashes. How has he never seen this before? He hasn't drawn them right. Got to fix that. "Freddie?"

The lashes flutter, but his eyes don’t open.

Roger reaches for his hand. “Freddie!”

"Shhh, 's alright." The words come out so slurred Roger can barely understand them.

"Freddie!" Good gracious, he's in the water. Not on the door with him, but in the water. Why isn’t he on the door? How long has he been there?

"Mee... Meeting you has... has been the best... the best thing... ever happened to me."

"No." The chill that runs through him has nothing to do with his freezing wet clothes. "No, we are not doing this, you hear me?"

Freddie continues like he hasn’t even heard him. "Promise me... you must promise me..."

"Stop it!" Roger prods Freddie's cheek with his stiff fingers, the closest he can get to a caress.

"Promise me, Roger..."

Roger hurls himself to the side and off the door. Cold, oh God, how could he already have forgotten just how bloody cold the water is? He paddles until he reaches Freddie and throws his arms around his back.

"I will do... no such thing", he whispers as he holds on tight. He puts his mouth to the back of Freddie's neck, rubs his hands along his sides, tries to mould his front to Freddie's back, anything to get a bit of warmth into him. “Get on the door.”

Freddie takes a deep breath, pressing back into him. “This is nice”, he slurs.

But Roger’s having none of that. "Come on, move, Freddie!" He pushes weakly at him, but Freddie doesn’t stir.

Finally, Freddie lifts his head from his arms. "Rog..." He turns his head as if looking for him.

"Yeah, I'm here." Roger looks around, frantically looking for a way out of this. The lights are still as far away as they'd been before. The boats are not coming back. He thinks back to the raft that Brian and John had built… it must be out there somewhere (he refuses to believe even for a second that anything built by Brian wouldn’t do its job), but he has no idea where. And Freddie’s barely got the strength left in him to speak, let alone swim around. But if they stay in the water, even if they share warmth and keep moving until their last ounce of energy is exhausted, they won't last long. Especially not Freddie.

How could he have left him in there for so long?

"You…” Freddie starts speaking, his voice croaking. “You take my... my breath away."

"Sorry, love." Roger loosens the hold he’s got on Freddie a little. He doesn't have much feeling in his hands, so he must have squeezed him too hard.

But Freddie shakes his head. "The song. It does have words. I wrote it... for you. It's true. It's all true."

Roger racks his brain to recall what he's... oh. The song Roger had asked him about, the one that had agitated him so much.

"C-captured my love, stolen m-my h-heart." It sounds like he's attempting to sing now, his full voice no more than a whisper, but Roger can just make out the ghost of melody.

"It's beautiful. You must sing it to me when we're in New York. When we're in our comfortable warm house, in front of the fire and you’re sitting at the grand piano."

"Promise me..."

"I promise. I promise we'll..."

"Promise you won't forget me."

Oh God, please, please don't do this. He cannot do this. Roger squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead between Freddie’s shoulder blades. He takes two deep breaths, desperately trying to think of a way to get them both out of this. There _must_ be something he can do.

When Roger opens his eyes again something red and white reflects in the starlight, 15, maybe 20 yards away. It's a life-saver, a simple ring, not enough to keep them out of the water. But coupled with Freddie’s life vest and the door...

"Freddie? Freddie. I need you to move."

Freddie groans.

"I know, love, but you must. Stretch your arms. Come on, you can do that. For me." Ever so slowly, Freddie reaches, fingers scrabbling over the ornamental carvings in the wood. "Good. Now on three, I want you to pull yourself up, right?"

"What a... what about... y-you..."

"I'll be right behind you, I swear. Now one, two, three."

Inch by inch, Freddie makes it on top of the door. Roger holds on to the edge of the door for traction, pushing and pulling at every part of Freddie he can reach. Once Freddie is safely on top, Roger's muscles are trembling from the effort and he feels like he's swallowed at least two pints of seawater. But he's alive. He's moving and his body is still working and he just won Freddie another couple of precious minutes.

He swims up to the side and puts a hand on Freddie’s cheek. "Freddie? Freddie, listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Hmm."

"There’s something I have to do. It won’t take a minute. Stay here, alright? I'll be back, I promise."

Freddie's hand suddenly grabs his arm with a strength Roger didn’t think he’d have left in him. "The song. The ending. I must... I must tell you. When I found you. I..."

Roger presses his fingers against Freddie’s lips. "You will tell me", he whispers. "When we're in New York, you will tell me." He takes one long last look at Freddie, then pushes off in the direction of the life-saver.

He’s got to be fast. If Freddie notices he's gone, the stubborn idiot might try to come after him and then everything would have been in vain.  
The noise has died down so much that now he can make out the individual screams rising above the water. The people in the lifeboats waiting just a few hundred yards away must hear them too. But the lights don't move. Why don't they move? Do they care so little about all those souls fighting for their lives in the water?

He swims by the officer who'd been blowing his whistle. His frozen face and unseeing eyes make it clear that he is dead. Roger reaches out and takes the whistle from him, struggling to put the thin chain around his neck with unfeeling fingers.

He finds the life-saver and turns to head back, only to come face to face with a girl, fifteen or sixteen at the most, looking like a sleeping angel. She is wearing two vests on top of one another. Roger watches her mouth for a moment, just to be sure. There is no trace of breath rising from it. With a silent prayer, he reaches for the fastenings and tears them open.

He comes across another life jacket as he swims back. Is it one of those he freed just before the ship broke apart? He can’t have been more than thirty or forty yards from the door, but the way back seems endlessly long, his limbs heavy and unfeeling like bricks as he makes himself move with every ounce of willpower he’s got left in him. Get back to Freddie, make sure he’s safe and if it’s the last thing he does.

When he’s finally back at the door, Freddie has rolled onto his back, lying so far to the left side of that he's threatening to slip off, one arm already dangling in the water. Roger pushes it back and calls Freddie’s name.

He moves his head towards Roger, but doesn’t open his eyes. It’s something. It’s got to be enough.

Roger shoves the live safer and vests underneath the door, hoping that they'll stabilize it and lift it just that bit more out of the water. He feels like he’s falling asleep even while he’s working, a bone-deep tiredness pulling him under. He digs his teeth into his lips, his tongue, the inside of his cheek, the only parts of his body that have some feeling left in them, refusing to give in.

Once the floating devices are in place, he mobilizes his last reserves to force his failing muscles into action. He heaves himself up, somehow managing to climb up onto the door, landing squarely on Freddie. They rock and sway, but he keeps his balance. The smallest movement causes the edges to dip into the water, but it’s just enough to hold them both up. It would probably be better for Freddie to lie on top so that Roger can shield him from the water, but there is no way he has the strength to turn them around now without having them both tumble over the edge.

Exhausted, Roger nuzzles his face into Freddie's chest, feeling the comforting rise and fall of his breathing.

Silently they drift in the night.

* * *

Freddie is floating. His body is heavy and weightless. His eyes are half-closed, his vision blurry, but he can see the brilliant canopy of stars. They've never been that bright before, like he could reach them if he just stretched out his hand.

Cassiopeia, the proud beauty. Orion the hunter. Taurus, marked by Aldebaran, the red star. David had taught them to him back when. Ursa major, stretching out far in the north, pointing at the North Star.

A bright light blinds him momentarily, but it's gone quickly, just a flash. He blinks, but his eyes won't open completely. There's something glueing his lashes together.

Another flash. Freddie wants to raise his hand to shield himself from the light, but finds it won't move. He shifts his body, but it's weighted down.

Again the light roams over him. Freddie turns his head and winces as his hair sticks to the wood underneath him.

A boat gliding silently through black water, a man standing inside, holding a torchlight. There are dark shapes in the water.

Bodies. Bodies and debris from...

"Roger?" It's what he wants to say but no sound comes out. He coughs. "Roger?" His voice is a croak, barely audible even to his own ears.

He tries to lift his arms, but his clothes are sticking to the door. He jerks hard to free himself and the abrupt movement causes them to sway heavily from side to side. He stills to keep their balance. He moves unfeeling hands over the figure covering him, until he reaches thick hair frozen into stiff spikes.

He's still here. Thank God he's still here. Freddie dreamt that he was gone.

Freddie slides his hand to Roger's face, stroking, prodding, trying to make him wake up.

"Roger!" He's not moving, there's no sound, no warmth, no breath that Freddie can feel. "Oh God, no."

Freddie stills for a moment, lets himself sink back onto the piece of wood that has kept him alive.

There’s that irritating light again. He turns his head. There is a boat not 50 yards from him, slowly gliding through the darkness.

He doesn't even feel cold now. Now that the worst is over, that his body has given up its futile fight, it doesn’t feel too bad. There’s some warmth returning to him even, in his chest, his stomach.

It might not be so bad to go together. Not with the comforting weight of Roger against his chest and the light of the eternal stars above him. It’s more than he ever could have asked for.

His lips twitch into the semblance of a smile as he imagines what Roger would say if he could hear his thoughts. _What a load of bollocks_ , he can hear him rant with his lovely raspy voice.

A voice that would be forgotten, along with the look in his eyes when he watched Freddie at the piano, the sure touch of his hands and the taste of his skin.

He can’t do that to him. Freddie knows that with sudden clarity, a certitude he’s never felt before. He made Roger promise not to forget him. If it is his lot to spend the rest of his life remembering Roger, then that is an honour he will try to live up to.

He looks at the boat again. It has passed them by now, the torchlight searching other areas for survivors. It’s his chance, the one chance Roger had been working so hard to give him. He is not going to throw it all away.

But first, he has got to be sure.

With both hands, he reaches for Roger's head where it is resting on his chest and lifts it until he can see his face. It's white and unmoving and his closed eyelids are glazed with a thin sheet of ice.

Freddie angles his head until a bright cluster of stars is just behind him like a crown. He stills and holds his breath, hoping against hope to see a trace of life rising from those lips.

“Roger”, he whispers. His eyes are stinging and his arms are already tired beyond endurance. But he tightens his grip and tries again. “The boats are here, darling.” His voice catches in his throat. “They’ve come back.”

Roger’s face swims before his eyes as tears threaten to spill over, so at first, Freddie can’t be sure if he’s really seen it. A twitch of his eyelids. A slight frown on his forehead.

"Roger!" His heart beats hard and sluggish in his chest.

He feels a movement against his arm, Roger’s fingers pressing in where he’s holding onto Freddie.

Freddie shakes Roger now, desperate and clumsy, as relief wars with the knowledge that these precious signs of life hang by the thinnest thread.

"Roger!" His voice is still little more than a whisper. "Come on, don’t leave me here. Don't you... don't you dare... not now. Please. Not now."

Something silvery catches his eye. A chain around Roger's neck. He doesn't wear a necklace, Freddie is sure of it. He reaches for it and finds a small whistle.

Oh, Roger's clever, of course he is.

Freddie takes the whistle between unfeeling lips, turns his head so he's as far away as possible from Roger's ear, and blows. The sound tears through the silence of the night. Roger's head twitches as he instinctively tries to move away. Freddie tightens his arm around him, giddy with relief and blows the whistle again. The searchlight passes over them, once, twice and this time it stays on them. Tears work their way down Freddie's cheeks, freezing before they are even half-way down.

He only lets the whistle drop when Roger is being lifted into the boat.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to my beta and all-around wonderful person @nastally <3
> 
>  **Soundtrack:**  
>  Queen - In The Lap Of The Gods (Revisited)
> 
> Warning: Brief suicidal ideation.

Six people are rescued from the water. Six, including him and Roger. One of them doesn’t live to see the morning.

Freddie can't say how many could have been saved, but it must have been dozens, perhaps hundreds.

At dawn, a rescue ship appears, a smaller passenger liner by name of Carpathia, and begins to take on the survivors. It's a fraught and lengthy transfer, but for once they get lucky, as theirs is the second boat to be evacuated. Roger, dazed and barely able to move, is brought into the second class dining room, which fills up with survivors and helpers as the morning wears on.

The ship's doctor has a look at Roger's bruised and torn hand while he is still asleep and an American nurse comes over a short time later to wrap it up properly with a couple of bandages. Passengers and crew donate spare clothing, and Freddie manages to get a simple cotton pyjama for Roger and a worn seaman's uniform for himself. It will do until their own clothes have dried. Two passengers from the Carpathia help him wrestle an uncooperative Roger out of his wet clothes and into the pyjamas. Then there's nothing he can do but sit next to him, swaddle them both in as many blankets as he can find, and wait.

He sips hot tea and forces himself to nibble some biscuits. He's survived and Roger is with him and that is all that matters. He doesn't dare raise his head and look around the room, cannot confront who he might find among those that survived. And those who did not.

Freddie keeps watch as the colour returns to Roger's cheeks, as he goes from barely conscious to fast asleep, moaning and twisting in troubled dreams. He rubs his arms, combs back his hair, tells him he is going to be alright.

Anything so he doesn't have to face the enormity of what has happened.

Anything but to think about the fact that he might not lay eyes on any of the faces he saw in the last half hour before the sinking ever again.

"Freddie?"

His voice is nothing more than a croak, but when Freddie looks down, Roger's eyes are clear and bright, fixed onto his face. It warms him more than all the tea and blankets in the world ever could.

"Hello." Freddie reaches for his now lukewarm tea and brings it to Roger's lips. Roger tries to sit up a bit, but falls back down with a wince as he tries to support himself on his injured hand.

Freddie cups the back of his head. "Here. Let me."

Roger manages a few sips, then closes his eyes.

"Are you in pain?"

Roger shakes his head, then grimaces and nods. "I think someone tried to break my hand."

"The bastard", Freddie answers and notes the twitch of Roger’s lips with satisfaction. "Here, have a biscuit."

Roger chews a little hesitantly at first, then devours most of it in one gulp. "Hmm", he moans in a manner Freddie finds a bit obscene for this bright daylight. "These are... have we got any more?"

Freddie pulls the plate closer to him, finding it impossible to look away as Roger angles for another biscuit. It’s a miracle, watching him sit there, shoving one sugary treat after the other into his mouth when only a few hours ago, Freddie had thought him lost forever.

Roger reaches out with his good hand again, then freezes. "The others”, he says. “Brian and John and… the girl, oh God. Where are..."

Freddie shakes his head. "I don't know."

"Oh God", Roger repeats and lets the last biscuit fall back down onto the plate. He lies back against the blankets and squeezes his eyes shut. The memories must be coming back to him, the images, the screams, the freezing water quieting them one by one.

Freddie lets his head hang and squeezes Roger's arm. "I know, darling. I know." He wishes he could kiss him, hold him close, feel his body against his own. Roger has always been so warm, even when he pressed himself against Freddie in the freezing water. But they can't do that here. His heart grows heavy as he realises that they won't be able to do that for a long time.

They won't be doing that at all.

The ship is now resting on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean - and with it, all it’s magic and illusion of freedom. Reality has asserted itself, and the reality is that Freddie is still bound for New York, that he'll soon be reunited with his mother, with Kash (and with all his heart, he longs to see them again, to make sure they're alright). His stomach turns as he imagines having to come face to face with Cy.

The ship may have offered a brief respite, a taste of a fantasy life that can never be real, but the ship is gone. He is still engaged, still his parents’ only son, still the heir of the family on whose shoulders rest all expectations.

Despite everything that has happened, nothing has changed.

Of course, he's always known that. But he thought they'd have longer. Three more days at least. And last night, when everything else fell away and every choice meant life of death, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps the fantasy wasn’t as out of reach as he imagined it to be.

Perhaps he shouldn't have blown that whistle.

No, no, how can he think like that. Roger would have died, too. And now he's alive and Freddie can at least look at him for another couple of days, maybe even catch a stolen touch here and there. And then they'll walk off the ship to their separate futures and Roger can brighten another one's life and Freddie will have those memories to carry him however far he's able to go on.

It hurts. It hurts more than the cold or the lack of air in his lungs ever could. It feels like fate has cheated him out of those three days he's promised himself as a forward payment for a lifetime of service to his family. And all the while, he should be thanking the Almighty creator on his knees for saving him, for saving Roger, for saving everyone who made it to a boat, for every small miracle in this unfathomable tragedy.

"Oh my God", Roger says again, but in a different tone. Freddie can feel him struggle to get up from under the blankets.

"What..." But then his view is impeded by a mass of curly dark hair that is descending on Roger. Freddie can't see his face, but he knows that laugh. A hand grabs his neck, another is wrapped around his shoulders, and then he’s pulled into a hug so tight and unrestrained that all gloomy thoughts are forgotten. His face is mushed into Brian’s shoulder while Roger’s elbow digs into his side and it all doesn’t matter a bit.

“You tosser”, he hears Roger gasp. “How could you?”

Brian draws back a little, looks between Freddie and Roger, the expression on his face one of awe and disbelief. "You two”, he whispers with a shake of his head. “I can't believe both of you made it. I... Are you alright? When the ship broke apart, I thought..."

“Yes. Yes, we’re alright”, Freddie says. “We-”

“You’ve really got to stop doing that.” Roger cuts him off, voice trembling with emotion. “Seriously, Bri, I can’t take any more of it.”

Brian draws back a little more, as if worried his friend took offence at the embrace. “What?”

“Running off and then turning up again in the most dramatic fashion! My heart, old man, have pity.”

“I didn’t…” Brian gapes. “ _You_ were the ones running off!”

Freddie takes in his pale cheeks, his flowery jacket with the too short sleeves. There are a million things he should be asking but all that comes out of his mouth is, “What happened to your hair?" It looks like he's been standing in a thunderstorm holding a copper rod.

Roger reaches up to touch it, while Brian bats his hand away. "It gets like that", Roger says, a blinding smile on his face. "His hair styling routine takes longer than any lady's."

And he didn’t have any hair-oil, Freddie thinks, tamping down the hysterical laughter bubbling up in him.

"Shut up, you", Brian says, but they're all too giddy with relief to stop giggling.

Until Freddie catches the eye of an elderly woman not far away, who's been sobbing into a handkerchief the whole morning, eyes sunken with grief. Who knows who she's lost. That sobers him up well enough. "What about John", he asks. He’s sure that he must have made it too, because Brian wouldn’t be so elated if he hadn’t.

Brian nods, a happy but sober expression on his face. "Deacy's making the rounds further down, looking who else is here."

Roger’s eyebrows rise at the nickname. "Deacy?"

Brian just shrugs.

"So you actually managed to build the raft?"

"Yes."

"And it floated."

"Yes." Brian ducks his head, looking troubled. "It wasn't that big though. Deacy and I got on it, Laroche, Cora, and a couple of others, but..." He pauses for a long time, then rubs a hand over his weary face. "There were so many", he says quietly. "So many."

Roger reaches out to rub a hand over his back, such a natural, comforting gesture.

It comes in waves, the relief, the horror, the sadness, the disbelief. Roger and Freddie share a bit of what happened to them, but none of them are eager to get into the details. The bodies. The debris. The screams. Every now and then, one of them lets his gaze wander through the room and goes quiet. Then they catch each other's eyes and break out in disbelieving smiles at the sheer fact that they're all still here, together and alive.

The smile is about to fade from Roger's face when his eyes suddenly grow wide. He looks down at himself and seems to realise for the first time that he's in borrowed pyjamas. "My clothes?" He looks around, agitated. "What did they do to my clothes?"

"They're drying over there somewhere." Freddie points in the right direction.

He belatedly realises that losing a complete set of clothes would mean a lot more to Roger than losing an entire wardrobe does to him. (And his Monets. The heirloom necklace. _The drawing._ ) He tries to push those thoughts aside. _People_ have been lost. The time to mourn possessions is a long way long off. "Don't worry, we'll get them back and-"

"I have to get my jacket. Now." He tries to get up, but his legs don't carry him yet.

Freddie and Brian both reach out to make sure he doesn't keel over. "Roger, what-"

"It's important!"

Freddie has no idea why it should be that important, but at Roger’s insistence, he makes his way through the room and speaks to the lady in charge to get Roger's jacket back. When he returns, Roger has sat up and is waiting anxiously for him.

"Reach into the left inside pocket."

The fabric is still wet and clammy. The memory of soaked cold cloth on his skin makes him shiver. He never wants to feel that again as long as he lives. His fingers touch something smooth and leathery, and he pulls out a leather wallet. Inside he finds sodden banknotes and a small paper envelope.

Freddie frowns at the money in his hand. Those are hundred dollar notes. He looks up at Roger. "This is not yours."

Roger doesn’t look the least bit contrite as he admits it. "Obviously."

"You...you stole someone's wallet in the middle of a disaster?" Freddie keeps his voice down to a hiss. What on earth has come over Roger? Is he a thief after all?

Brian looks too scandalised to even say something. He just gapes at his friend.

"What's in the envelope", Roger asks, apparently completely unruffled by his friends’ disapproval.

"Roger..." This really isn't what he should be doing, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He opens the envelope, careful not to tear the wet paper. The glitter of cut diamonds sparkles back at him. Freddie quickly shoves everything back inside the jacket before someone sees. "Roger, what the devil..."

"Freddie, can you really not think who this belonged to?" Roger's sky-blue eyes are boring into his.

Diamonds. Freddie had heard something about a Diamond deal, in that other life back when they were having luxurious dinner parties on an unsinkable ship. Freddie's mouth falls open. "Cy?"

"Of course bloody Cy." Roger crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I'm not a thief", he says.

"It's still stealing, Rog, even if you don't like the guy", Brian reminds him. Which, technically, is true, Freddie supposes, but in this case he’ll defend Roger’s actions to his last breath.

"I was severely provoked", Roger shoots back.

"But... when”, Freddie asks. “When we were in the suite before you were... no. You never even came near him."

Roger just grins at him as he works his way up to a solution.

Images of that endless night flicker through Freddie’s mind. "On deck, when I punched him. You ran into him and..."

"It was almost by accident."

"Hah!" Brian crosses his arms and shakes his head, clearly not willing to let Roger off the hook so easily.

"Hey, don't look at me like that. I did my time in lock-up, didn't I? Bastard tried to let me drown and you're fretting over..."

"Wait.” Brian holds up a hand. “How do you mean you did your time? And who wanted to let you drown?"

This is when Freddie realises that Brian still doesn't know everything that happened in those few hours since they parted ways in the Turkish Bath (not that he’s ever going to know _everything_ that happened, either, Freddie silently amends while a very different sort of warmth rushes through him). "Er. Long story", Freddie says.

"Indeed", Roger agrees, exchanging a look with Freddie. They'll have to edit some of the details. "Short version is, he framed me for theft and had me locked up in a holding cell." He holds up his hands, sliding the sleeves up a bit so Brian can see the cuffs still attached to his right. "That's how this happened."

Brian looks flabbergasted. "But why on earth would he-"

"Anyway", Roger says and pats the pocket of the jacket. "I've become kind of used to a certain standard of living those last days." He leans over at Freddie and whispers conspiratorially, "How many nights at the Ritz will that buy us, d'you reckon?"

"I..." Roger said 'us'. Freddie doesn't know how to respond. Roger's obviously thinking that they'll be together in New York, which is just... He struggles to find a reply, but comes up empty.

He can see it dawning in Roger's eyes, see the sparkle of gleeful mischief be replaced by dull resignation. "Ah, well." Roger clears his throat and looks down at his hands.

Freddie wants to tell him he’s got it wrong, that he didn’t mean it that way. Why does it have to be like that?

Everything had seemed changed for those hours when they'd been fighting to escape the death trap closing in around them. When the only thing that mattered was keeping Roger alive. To have just one more hour with him. One _minute_. He could be brave for that. Why can’t he be brave when what’s at stake is the rest of his life? Why does it all seem so pointless, so oppressive, like lead weights sewn into his clothes, making everything feel so heavy?

Perhaps it would have been better to be floating on the ocean forever, together, frozen in time.

He slaps himself mentally for that thought. He’s been prepared to give his life for Roger. Now all he has to do is go on living it. How can that possibly be worse?

He'll get to see Kash again. His mother. Perhaps even his father is going to be glad to hear he has survived. It doesn’t have to be all awful.

_I wouldn't mind if you inquired after me._

"Excuse me, gentlemen." His trail of thought is interrupted when a steward with a clipboard approaches them. "Can I get your names, please?"

Roger and Brian nod wearily and state their full names, which are dutifully written down. Freddie barely has time to note the middle name Roger has never told him about, before the steward turns to him.

His tongue curls around the familiar shape of his name, but it doesn’t come out.

Because there, dancing in the dawn, sparkling and new, five different syllables are shining bright. His heart rate picks up, blood rushing in his ears.

It can’t be that easy, can it?

_You're not like them._

He can feel Roger next to him, warm and solid and so brave.

Freddie's thoughts are whirring. He'd never see his mother again. Or his brilliant baby sister.

“Sir?” The steward taps his pen against the clipboard.

_Don't let go._

Perhaps even his father is going to weep for him.

_I promise._

He looks up at the steward.

And it’s so easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In reality, only four people were pulled from the water by Fifth Officer Lowe, who was the only who returned to the scene of the sinking. 
> 
> This is the final chapter before the epilogue, which will reveal a bit more about the fate of the other characters. It might take a while for me to finish and post it though. So far, thanks to everyone who's been along for this adventure!


	22. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Soundtrack**  
>  Doris Day & Gordon MacRae - [By the Light of the Silvery Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=td7lCCO9aaQ)  
> Queen - [You Take My Breath Away (Live at Earl's Court)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sgFck95jZ1E)
> 
> Huge thanks as always for my wonderfully keen-eyed and supportive beta, @nastally! Special thanks go to @trixie_b for pointing the song they sing at the beginning out to me. It's beautiful and was a big hit in the early 1910s.

#### Friday, 19 July 1912

##### New York City, 11pm

_“By the light..”_

“Two three four”, Roger sing-songs in the pause to keep the rhythm going.

 _“...of the silvery moon, I want to spoon...”_ Freddie turns around so he is facing Roger and walking backwards _“...to my honey I croon love’s tune.”_ He almost falls over, stumbling on the wet cobbles, but Roger quickly catches him with one arm, earning himself a lopsided smile. _“Honeymoon…”_

 _“Honeymoon, honeymoon”_ , Roger adds before they continue together, _“Keep a shining in June...”_

“Or July”, Freddie shouts.

 _“Your silvery beams will bring love's dreams, we'll be cuddlin' soon by the silvery moon!”_ They finish the verse together and Roger laughs as Freddie twirls around him a few times.

 _“Act two, scene new…”_ Freddie continues, then raises his eyebrows as he waits for Roger to join in.

But they have just turned into their street now and it’s late at night and Freddie can not - _will_ not - sing softly when he is like this. And usually, Roger would join right in, neighbours and landladies be damned, but he’s been taking stock of their finances the other day and… let’s just say they really can’t afford to be thrown out of this place.

When Roger doesn’t pick up the melody, Freddie shrugs and continues to sing by himself. _“Roses blooming all around the place...”_

“Hush you now,” Roger says and presses a finger against Freddie’s lips, but Freddie twists his head away and starts again. “Freddie, Mrs Choplinsky will have our heads if we wake the whole house. Again.”

Freddie shakes his head, grinning brightly. “Not if we get you to blinker your dotey baby blues at her.”

Roger rolls his eyes. Freddie has taken to picking up every piece of American slang they’ve encountered. It sounds completely ridiculous coupled with his cut-class accent. And while it’s true that their landlady’s crush on him is a huge advantage (and source of amusement to Freddie), it does have its limits. “It might be safe for me, but I’d rather keep you up and alive as well.”

 _“Keep me up and alive…”_ Freddie launches into the tune again, making up his own lyrics this time.

Freddie is obviously more than just a bit tipsy. They’d met up at Brian’s place to celebrate his birthday and his acceptance into Columbia, and Brian had opened a nice bottle of red. Then John - who was staying with Brian since he had returned from his travels to help with the official inquiries - had announced that he was permanently going to stay in New York, which clearly called for another bottle. He hadn’t mentioned finding his own place, Roger noted.

_“... do let me croon, my little spoon…”_

Roger loves to see Freddie like this though, playful and uninhibited and smiling brightly. But now that they’re right in front of their building, they really need to tone it down. “Freddie, seriously, shut up!”

_“Make me, make me, my honey...”_

This is goading pure and simple. But then, Roger enjoys being goaded. He looks up and down the street, deserted in the drizzling rain that has started up. He grips Freddie by the lapels, pushes him into the dark shadows of the doorway and plants a big, wet, smacking kiss on his lips. The silly kind they might get away with pretending to be drunk best friends.

“Ugh”, Freddie grimaces and wipes his lips with the back of his hand, but then he immediately leans back in and draws Roger into a proper kiss.

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t out here, but Freddie’s so eager and a bit clumsy from the wine, it’s hard to resist. One hand is already sliding around Roger’s waist under his jacket and his breathing is speeding up. God, he’s so lovely like this. “Come on”, Roger whispers against Freddie’s lips. “Upstairs.”

Freddie tries to draw it out a bit longer, but with some more whispered promises and a bit of manhandling, Roger finally manages to get both of them into the dark, cramped hallway. They’ve barely made it three steps up the stairs, giggling and shushing each other, when the door to the landlady’s flat opens.

Bollocks!

Roger turns around, prepared to turn on the charm (the one that got them a room at this rate in the first place, the one that made this Polish matron bake a Victoria Sandwich for Brian’s birthday, the one that got her to turn a blind eye to the cat that has mysteriously moved into the house over the last few weeks), but instead of the landlady herself, it’s her youngest son, nine-year-old Janek, peering at them.

“Oh, hey,” Roger says surprised. “What are you still doing up?”

“You’ve got a package,” he says and holds it up. “It got delivered today.”

“A package?” That’s odd.

Janek nods. “It got delivered today”, he repeats. He looks very excited. He must have stayed up the whole night just to give it to them. “By a courier! It’s from overseas.”

Roger’s stomach turns to ice. Overseas means England and England means his family. No, no that can’t be. They wouldn’t… not after all this time. Perhaps it’s to do with the Titanic commission? Perhaps they found some of his belongings? He heard that some families received bits and pieces found floating at the site of the sinking. But after all this time? And how would they even know it’s his?

He makes to take the package, but Janek hugs it closer to his chest. “It’s for Mr Mercury.”

Freddie looks as shocked as Roger feels as he takes the package. Freddie’s name has no connection to England. No connection, except...

“Are you gonna open it?” Janek is vibrating with excitement, his huge eyes glued to the package and it’s (presumably) exotic contents.

“Yes, I will”, Freddie replies. “Upstairs. This is just… documents”, he adds when he sees Janek’s face fall. “Not very interesting I’m afraid.” He digs in his pocket for a coin. “Here, for your troubles. Treat yourself to something nice tomorrow.”

Janek looks heartbroken, but the promise of an ice cream sundae is nothing to be scoffed at. “Thank you, mister, good night”, he says, but doesn’t close the door yet. Just in case Freddie decides to open the package right here after all.

“Good night, Janek”, Roger says and takes Freddie’s elbow, tugging him upstairs.

As soon as the door to their attic room closes behind them, Freddie peels open the plain brown wrapping. There’s a letter on top. It bears Freddie’s name in elegant cursive. He picks it up with shaking fingers.

“Freddie?” Roger really wants to see what has Freddie so shaken. “What is it? Who’s writing to you?” He asks all those questions because until Freddie answers them, he can cling to his ignorance. He can pretend like he doesn’t already know deep down what this is about.

“It’s…” Freddie is not looking at Roger, gaze fixed at the letter. “It’s Kash.”

Damn it. Roger does his best to tamp down his rising panic. Freddie’s a grown man. His family can’t just order him back, can they? And Freddie wouldn’t go. Would he? “What’s she writing?” Roger tries to snatch the letter from Freddie.

“I’m trying to… let me just…” Freddie holds the letter out of reach, which only makes Roger try harder to get at it.

“What’s it saying,” he snaps. He’s got to know!

“I don’t know”, Freddie yells and takes two steps backwards, clutching the letter to his chest. “I haven’t read it yet, have I?”

“Yeah.” Roger takes a step back, hands raised. “Sorry.” He takes two deep breaths. “So. Are you going to read it then?”

Freddie looks at him. “Could you… could you wait outside. Please?”

The very last thing Roger wants to do is go outside and leave Freddie alone while his family is trying to woo him back. He doesn’t reply for a few seconds, hoping that Freddie will give in. But Freddie doesn’t say anything.

“Alright”, he says finally and picks up his tobacco pouch. “Alright.”

The last thing he sees when he steps through the door, is Freddie perched on the rickety chair by the oven, knees drawn to his chest.

The heatwave they’ve had earlier in the month has broken and it is chilly in the dark hallway. Rain is falling in earnest now, pattering against the window panes. Roger’s glad he kept on his corduroy jacket, which he pulls tighter around himself. He doesn’t go down further than the first flight of stairs. It takes him three tries to get a workable rollup done. He lights it and sucks the smoke in eagerly.

As much as he likes to pretend he doesn’t, he sees the look in Freddie’s eyes sometimes when he thinks Roger’s not looking. The homesickness, the loneliness. He doesn’t make friends as quickly as Roger and he had his life turned completely upside down within only a few days. It’s hard for him, of course it is, and he must miss the luxuries he had to give up more than he’d ever admit. Once, Roger saved up all his small change for three weeks and went and bought some tiny, exquisitely decorated truffles for Freddie. It was a ridiculously small present, but Freddie’s eyes had lit up like a child’s at Christmas, even as he was chiding Roger that he shouldn’t have. They have Wadia’s money of course, but most of it went into the used-clothes stall Roger has done up at a market a few blocks from here. The diamonds are still hidden away under a loose panel of the floorboards because they have no idea how to sell them without arousing suspicion. In theory, they’re rich. In practice, they’re living in a drafty one-room attic in a run-down neighbourhood and make a living selling rags.

It’s his greatest fear. That Freddie will regret it. That he isn’t enough. That the reality of poverty, of having to think about every single penny before it is spent, will prove too much. And now, if his family rolls out the red carpet for him...

He finishes the cigarette and starts pacing back and forth like an anxious father-to-be outside the delivery room. How long is Freddie going to take to read the damn thing? The letter didn’t look that long. But perhaps he wants to read it twice? But he can’t expect Roger to just wait around here forever. It must have been, what, ten minutes already? It feels longer.

Roger has another smoke although his throat feels parched and what he’d really like is a stiff drink. There’s a pub - a bar, he should say - only two minutes away. He’s got some small change in his pocket, he could grab a drink or two… but the thought of coming home only to find the room empty is intolerable.

And it had been such a good evening. Planning their big concert at the fundraiser for the Titanic Relief Fund. Brian in the waistcoat they had presented him with, the one that Roger had found in a pile of second-hand clothes and that Freddie had spent hours making adjustments on with their neighbour’s sewing machine. John opening up a bit and smiling for the first time since he’d returned to New York.

He paces restlessly. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s silly to worry. Freddie has made his decision. Why should he overturn it? And it’s not like they can force him to come back. But if Freddie’s family knows, Wadia will know too. And the last time they’ve seen him, Freddie beat the crap out of him (which still brings a smile to Roger’s face whenever he thinks of it).

But if he knows that Freddie is alive and well, if he finds out he is living with Roger… his stomach turns. Wadia knows other things about them as well. He had promised to keep it a secret, that night of the sinking when he’d confronted them, but on the precondition that Freddie would never see Roger again. God knows what he might do if he found them now.

Sharing a one-bedroom apartment together.

And God knows if he’ll ever make the connection between Roger and the diamonds. Perhaps they should just smuggle them in at the fundraiser. It would be a sensation of course, but Wadia could hardly claim them back, could he, not when it’s widows and orphans profiting…

And then all hope of ever giving Freddie the life he deserves would be lost. Because no matter how much he blustered, Roger doesn’t have the makings of a business tycoon. And while they’re all excited about starting their little band (which to Roger’s chagrin will not be called The Radiant Roger and his Rowdy Radicals), this is not a way to get rich.

Not rich like Freddie’s family is anyway.

Roger stomps out his half-finished cigarette and runs up the stairs, suddenly so impatient he can’t possibly stay out here a minute longer. Freddie’s had more than enough time.

He knocks on the door and when there’s no reply, steps inside.

Freddie’s at the window, hands on the sill, head hanging low between his shoulders.

“Freddie?”

He doesn’t react. When Roger comes closer, he can see that Freddie’s shaking. For heaven’s sake, what on earth did they put in that letter?

Roger puts a careful hand on Freddie’s shoulder, glad that he isn’t shrugged off. “Hey. Is it… is it bad?”

Freddie takes a harsh breath and shakes his head. He holds out the sheets of paper with one hand, not turning to look at Roger. He never does when he’s crying.

Roger takes the letter but can’t bring himself to step away from Freddie yet. He wants to know what’s in there, wants to know so badly, but… but it might also bring an end to everything he thought they had.

Not clinging to anything, not owning anything, always moving from one place to the next like a feather in the wind, that had been his life. It had changed when he stepped off the Carpathia with Freddie Mercury by his side. When they signed the joint lease to this sorry excuse for an apartment. His old life had its drawbacks - not knowing where the next meal would come from, the bad conscience of leaving a trail of broken hearts behind, the niggling worry that he was always missing out, no matter how much he moved and how many people he met. But the one thing he never had to worry about was losing anything.

Perhaps he should have stuck with it.

Freddie clears his throat. “Read it”, he says, his voice thick and gravelly.

Roger rubs his hand over Freddie’s back, unwilling to let go of him. “Are you going to be…”

“For heaven’s sake”, Freddie whispers and shakes his head harshly. The tension in his body tells Roger he’s a second away from running out the door. He does that when it all gets too much.

Roger takes a step back, letter in hand. He sits down on the bed and carefully unfolds the first page.

> _Dearest Freddie,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you well._
> 
> _Oh, I can see you wrinkling your nose at such a clichéd sentence, but I mean it, with all my heart and in so many ways._
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you, most of all. It hasn’t been easy, finding out your address through the inquest commission. I’m picturing this letter on its long journey across the Atlantic, through the maze of streets that is New York, finally finding its way into your hands, big brother. _
> 
> _I also hope it finds you. You cannot imagine how my heart jumped when I saw that name, Freddie Mercury, on the list of survivors. Yes, I read them all, not just the ones for the First Class. I really hope that there isn’t another Freddie reading this. If it is, please spare me and don’t set me right. I thought I lost you once, when you were nowhere to be found on that horrible morning after. I couldn’t bear it a second time. _
> 
> _And finally, I hope it finds you well. I don’t pretend to know the depths of your soul and your heart, but I know you haven’t been happy in a long time. So, whatever your reasons, I hope with all my heart that you are doing well, that you are living the life you’ve been dreaming of, or at least a life that doesn’t feel like you have to bear it._
> 
> _But I’m going about this all wrong, am I not? I know how you must be fretting, so I’ll try to be brief and tell you what you must most long to know:_
> 
> _No one else knows. I haven’t told anyone and I won’t, unless you tell me different._
> 
> _Ma was heartbroken as you can imagine. I’ll spare you the description of how she went through the lists and the newspaper articles every day on our journey back to England. Many wives lost children and husbands that night, so she was in good company. Colonel Gracie accompanied us back - he told her the story of your heroic sacrifice over and over again: how you refused to board the last boat (and if I ever see you again I am going to punch in the nose for that) to save the father of two children (and hug you so tight your ribs creak)._
> 
> _He told papa about it too._
> 
> _I don’t think he has ever been prouder of you. I hate him a little bit every time he says it. How can he be happier about your death, however noble, than about your life? But then I see how he looks at your photograph every night before he goes to bed and I cannot hold on to my righteous anger. Because it looks like something is breaking inside him every time he sees your picture._
> 
> _Ah, here I go again, blubbering. What else to tell you? Oh yes. Cy. Cy has written to us a couple of times, implying that he wouldn’t be averse to another match between the Wadias and the Bulsaras. No, no, dear brother, calm down, it is not to be. I am sure you have read all the stories in the papers about his shameful behaviour. How he tried to bribe his way onto a lifeboat and pushed drowning people off the half-submerged collapsible with an oar? They’d never let me marry such a scoundrel. I can’t deny a bit of very unladylike satisfaction every time I see papa glare at another scathing newspaper article about him._
> 
> _I think they are quite done with the idea of marriage (and America) for quite a while, which is very much in line with my own preferences, as you can imagine._
> 
> _Speaking of lifeboats, you were quite right. It is allowable to talk to everyone else in an emergency, even when you haven’t been introduced. The Countess was magnificent, by the way. She took over the oars herself at one point! I’m afraid to say my own attempts at rowing have been less than successful, but I made an effort (and ma couldn’t stop me because the Countess approved!) We correspond regularly now and I have been invited to tea twice! She knows the most interesting people and one gentleman (he’s 58 and happily married, don’t fret) knows the head designer of Callot Soeurs in Paris. He told me to send him some of my designs and… Oh, how I wish you were here! I cannot possibly decide what to send him and when I think about all those famous designers looking at them they all seem so bland and dull. You always had such a good eye. You’d have been able to tell me which ones to choose and how to give them that certain je ne sais quoi._
> 
> _But you’re not here. You’re on the other side of the world._
> 
> _Sometimes I feel like it was all a bad dream, like it never happened. And then I’ll walk along in the garden, just minding my own thoughts, and suddenly I realise all over again that over 1500 people have died in that one night. People I have known. Mothers and fathers and children! And that it could easily have been me. Maybe it should have been me. When you read about a whole family washed away by the waves, a family so full of hopes and dreams, while I was sitting comfortably in a boat that wasn’t even half full… I can’t stand it. I just don’t know how, it’s so unfair. So much was wrong that night._
> 
> _But I don’t want to bore you with my melancholic thoughts. I was never one for brooding (unlike a certain sibling of mine) so I’m sure it will pass with time._
> 
> _I don’t know how to finish this letter. There is so much I want to tell you - about our life here, about our past, about my plans for the future - but I don’t know how to put it in words. And I fear that if I ever start on the mundane details of my life I’ll never be able to stop myself, because what if I miss the most important ones? So perhaps it is better I don’t start at all._
> 
> _Always your loving sister_
> 
> _Kashmira_
> 
> _PS: Give my regards to Roger._

Roger releases a deep breath as he puts the letter down. He moves further up the bed, until he’s sitting with his back against the headboard. He needs that support now.

Freddie hasn’t moved at all while he was reading, staying right by the window and looking out into the rainy night.

He should be happy that Freddie has a sister who loves him so fiercely. But all he can think about is what must be going through Freddie’s head. He could return home like a conquering hero. He could claim amnesia or a confusion of the mind, that he only now realised who he really is. His parents wouldn’t probe his story too much if it means they get their long lost son back. Roger doesn’t know the depths of Freddie’s mind and heart any better than Kash - alright, perhaps he knows some aspect better than her - but has an inkling of how much he’s been yearning for his father to look upon him with pride.

And now he could have that.

The one thing Roger can’t give him.

No. One of many things Roger can’t give him.

The bed dips beside him. Roger keeps his eyes on his feet in their threadbare socks. He doesn’t want to see Freddie’s expression right now.

His arm is nudged aside and Freddie worms his head underneath it, until his head is resting on Roger’s stomach. Roger tightens his arm around him automatically. Freddie’s hand is on his hip, his thumb rubbing small circles. Roger relishes this closeness. Wonders how long he gets to keep it.

He wants to stay like this forever, or at least until Freddie decides to break the silence, but as always, he finds he cannot keep his mouth shut. "Do you wish you hadn’t done it?”

Freddie’s thumb stills. The only sound in the room is their breathing, mixing with the sewing machine that is always rattling next door and a cart jolting down the street.

Freddie shakes his head, but before Roger can breathe a sigh of relief, he feels Freddie nod against his belly.

He tightens his arm around him.

“Sometimes”, Freddie says quietly. “Do you?”

“Never”, Roger says immediately. If ever there was a time to put his cards on the table, this is it. Freddie drives him up the wall sometimes and he misses the freedom of being able to come and go as he pleases, but he wouldn’t give this up for the world.

“No, I mean… I mean leaving your family.”

The same reply is on his tongue, but he bites it back. The poker-playing, calculating part of him tells him to say no, not anymore, to tell Freddie how after a year or so it becomes easy.

But that wouldn’t be fair. “My family”, he begins, then stops. He’s never told Freddie much apart from the bare facts he let on that night on the ship after the drawing session. A simple story - a plucky boy bravely leaving the path his family has carved out for him. It’s the story he himself believes most of the time. “When I ran away from home, I…” He shakes his head. Still not right. He itches for a smoke, but his tobacco pouch is out of reach and he won’t dislodge Freddie from where he’s melded to his side. “I have a sister too”, Roger says finally. “Also a couple of years younger.” Clare would be sixteen now. It was her birthday the week before he boarded the ship.

Freddie’s thumb resumes it’s circling.

“My father, he wasn’t… _isn’t_ a good man. Always angry. Mainly with me, but I don't know what happened after I left.” What Roger likes to believe is that after his only son ran away he saw the error of his ways and swore off the alcohol and the raging tantrums. But there’s only so far even his natural optimism will carry him. “I always thought I'd come back for her at some point. But... there was always something else to do. It was just never the right time.” He takes a deep breath. “Except not really. I just didn't dare."

"Because of your father?"

"Because of what I might find." It’s hard to get the words out without his throat tightening up. "I abandoned her."

"You were twelve."

"She was nine."

"That's still..."

But Roger cuts him off with a shake of his head. "I made my decision. I'm going to have to live with it." Then in a softer voice, "I think about her every day of my life."

"What's her name?"

"Clare." Roger buries his nose in Freddie’s hair, breathes him in. “So yes. Yes, I do regret it. But I’d have regretted anything else even more.”

They lie in silence for a long while, curled up in each other.

“There was something else in that package”, Freddie says. “Besides the letter.”

It’s only then that Roger remembers Freddie hadn’t just received a letter, but a whole package. “Oh yes?”

“I’ll show you.” Freddie gets up.

Roger misses his warmth immediately. He doesn’t really want to know what it is. What he wants to know is whether this is their last night before Freddie boards the next ship back to England.

“Close your eyes.”

And he doesn’t want to look away from Freddie either. When he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll have him, every second seems precious. But he closes his eyes obediently. There’s a rustling of paper and fabric that seems to go on forever. “Can I look?”

“Hush. Patience, my dear.” It takes another couple of minutes and all of Roger’s fraying patience until Freddie finally says: “Now.”

He’s standing in the light of their flickering lamp and for a moment, Roger is transported back to that magical night on the ship, when Freddie had stepped into the parlour of his suite, wearing nothing but a silk kimono, trembling with nerves and anticipation.

The colours are different, but the way the fabric falls down the floor is exactly the same. And again there’s that look on Freddie’s face. Challenging. Apprehensive. Brave.

Then he breaks Roger’s gaze and tugs at the sleeves. “I always loved these”, he says. “She knows I lost mine in the… that night, so she made me a new one.” He gives Roger another look. “It’s worth a fortune”, he continues, then quickly adds, a little subdued. “The silk alone… We can sell it, if you like, it’ll pay our rent for a year.” While he’s saying it, his fingers dig into the fabric like he’s already holding on to it.

As if Roger would want to take this away from him. He’d never… “Our rent?” Not ‘your’ rent. Our.

Freddie frowns at him. “Yes.”

“So. So you’ll stay?”

“Where else would I go?” Freddie looks confused.

Something big happens inside Roger, like a whole meadow of flowers unfolding in the spring. At the same time, he’s so incredibly angry, because… because how dare Freddie not even know about the anguish he suffered in the last hour? He wants to throw himself at him and kick him and kick himself and hold him so tight he can’t breathe.

While Roger’s struggling to find a suitable expression for his emotions, the frown on Freddie’s forehead deepens. He looks like he’s so close to figuring it out, which for some reason Roger also doesn’t want to happen, so he quickly throws out the first thing that comes to his mind. “A high-class brothel, looking like that”, he grumbles.

Freddie yelps and draws the gown around himself a little tighter. “That was charming”, he sniffs. “Thanks for the ‘high-class’, I reckon.” But he's still eyeing Roger a little suspiciously. “Did you think…”

“The light is shit but perhaps tomorrow morning I could get out the drawing pad”, Roger says. “Draping fabric is a pain to draw, but you’d look great with that thing half-slid off your shoulder, glowing in the morning sun…”

A small, pleased smile appears on Freddie’s face as he saunters over to the bed. “It’s raining cats and dogs, darling. Not much of a chance for glorious morning sunlight.”

Roger reaches up to feel the silk of the kimono’s sleeve between his fingers. “There will be other mornings.” And then his face pulls into a wide, unstoppable grin, because there _will_ be other mornings, lots and lots of them.

He kisses Freddie then, pouring into it all the unbridled joy he is feeling. He buries his hands in Freddie’s hair and holds and holds him, until Freddie finally pulls back.

"Speaking of promises”, Freddie says, looking slightly dazed and more than a bit flushed. “I still owe you a song."

"A song?" To be honest, Roger’s mind had wandered into a slightly different direction.

"You made me promise to sing it to you once we were in New York. In our house, in front of the roaring fire, with our grand piano."

Roger eyes the lopsided upright piano they'd bought from a neighbour for five dollars and the promise never to let her husband play it again. "Not exactly a grand. Or a house.” Roger looks over to their small coal stove. "We do have a fire though."

"Good enough for me", Freddie says and gets up to walk to the piano. "Do you want to hear it," he asks and looks remarkably like he isn’t sure Roger does.

"Of course I want to hear it." He remembers everything that happened that night with horrible, awesome clarity. But they never talked about it, and Roger had never asked how the song ended. But perhaps now is a good time to learn.

With his kimono fluttering around him and his hair in wonderful disarray, Freddie sits down at the piano.

He starts to play.

And then he sings.

_I will find you  
Anywhere you go  
Right until the ends of the Earth  
I'll get no sleep till I find you to  
Tell you when I've found you -  
I love you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thanks to everyone who commented and kudoed and was with me throughout this 🙏💖

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hearts Go On](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764233) by [1f_this_be_madness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness)




End file.
